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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/4536-h.zip b/4536-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..532e343 --- /dev/null +++ b/4536-h.zip diff --git a/4536-h/4536-h.htm b/4536-h/4536-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d0adce --- /dev/null +++ b/4536-h/4536-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9394 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of Sylvia's Lovers, Vol. III, by Elizabeth Gaskell +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.transnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.intro {font-size: medium ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Sylvia's Lovers, Vol. III, by Elizabeth Gaskell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Sylvia's Lovers, Vol. III + +Author: Elizabeth Gaskell + +Posting Date: August 11, 2009 [EBook #4536] +Release Date: October, 2003 +First Posted: February 4, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIA'S LOVERS, VOL. III *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="transnote"> +[Editor's Note:—The chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed +from the original in order to have unique chapter numbers for the +complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter XV and volume 3 +starts with chapter XXX.] +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +SYLVIA'S LOVERS. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ELIZABETH GASKELL +</H2> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Oh for thy voice to soothe and bless!<BR> + What hope of answer, or redress?<BR> + Behind the veil! Behind the veil!—Tennyson<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IN THREE VOLUMES. +<BR> +VOL. III. +<BR> +LONDON: +<BR> +M.DCCC.LXIII. +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap30">HAPPY DAYS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap31">EVIL OMENS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap32">RESCUED FROM THE WAVES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap33">AN APPARITION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXIV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap34">A RECKLESS RECRUIT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap35">THINGS UNUTTERABLE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXVI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap36">MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXVII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap37">BEREAVEMENT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXVIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap38">THE RECOGNITION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXIX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap39">CONFIDENCES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XL </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap40">AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XLI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap41">THE BEDESMAN OF ST SEPULCHRE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XLII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap42">A FABLE AT FAULT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XLIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap43">THE UNKNOWN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XLIV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap44">FIRST WORDS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XLV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap45">SAVED AND LOST</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap30"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HAPPY DAYS +</H3> + +<P> +And now Philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could desire. The +business flourished, and money beyond his moderate wants came in. As +for himself he required very little; but he had always looked +forward to placing his idol in a befitting shrine; and means for +this were now furnished to him. The dress, the comforts, the +position he had desired for Sylvia were all hers. She did not need +to do a stroke of household work if she preferred to 'sit in her +parlour and sew up a seam'. Indeed Phoebe resented any interference +in the domestic labour, which she had performed so long, that she +looked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her own. 'Mrs +Hepburn' (as Sylvia was now termed) had a good dark silk gown-piece +in her drawers, as well as the poor dove-coloured, against the day +when she chose to leave off mourning; and stuff for either gray or +scarlet cloaks was hers at her bidding. +</P> + +<P> +What she cared for far more were the comforts with which it was in +her power to surround her mother. In this Philip vied with her; for +besides his old love, and new pity for his aunt Bell, he never +forgot how she had welcomed him to Haytersbank, and favoured his +love to Sylvia, in the yearning days when he little hoped he should +ever win his cousin to be his wife. But even if he had not had these +grateful and affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, he would +have done much for her if only to gain the sweet, rare smiles which +his wife never bestowed upon him so freely as when she saw him +attending to 'mother,' for so both of them now called Bell. For her +creature comforts, her silk gowns, and her humble luxury, Sylvia did +not care; Philip was almost annoyed at the indifference she often +manifested to all his efforts to surround her with such things. It +was even a hardship to her to leave off her country dress, her +uncovered hair, her linsey petticoat, and loose bed-gown, and to don +a stiff and stately gown for her morning dress. Sitting in the dark +parlour at the back of the shop, and doing 'white work,' was much +more wearying to her than running out into the fields to bring up +the cows, or spinning wool, or making up butter. She sometimes +thought to herself that it was a strange kind of life where there +were no out-door animals to look after; the 'ox and the ass' had +hitherto come into all her ideas of humanity; and her care and +gentleness had made the dumb creatures round her father's home into +mute friends with loving eyes, looking at her as if wistful to speak +in words the grateful regard that she could read without the poor +expression of language. +</P> + +<P> +She missed the free open air, the great dome of sky above the +fields; she rebelled against the necessity of 'dressing' (as she +called it) to go out, although she acknowledged that it was a +necessity where the first step beyond the threshold must be into a +populous street. +</P> + +<P> +It is possible that Philip was right at one time when he had thought +to win her by material advantages; but the old vanities had been +burnt out of her by the hot iron of acute suffering. A great deal of +passionate feeling still existed, concealed and latent; but at this +period it appeared as though she were indifferent to most things, +and had lost the power of either hoping or fearing much. She was +stunned into a sort of temporary numbness on most points; those on +which she was sensitive being such as referred to the injustice and +oppression of her father's death, or anything that concerned her +mother. +</P> + +<P> +She was quiet even to passiveness in all her dealings with Philip; +he would have given not a little for some of the old bursts of +impatience, the old pettishness, which, naughty as they were, had +gone to form his idea of the former Sylvia. Once or twice he was +almost vexed with her for her docility; he wanted her so much to +have a will of her own, if only that he might know how to rouse her +to pleasure by gratifying it. Indeed he seldom fell asleep at nights +without his last thoughts being devoted to some little plan for the +morrow, that he fancied she would like; and when he wakened in the +early dawn he looked to see if she were indeed sleeping by his side, +or whether it was not all a dream that he called Sylvia 'wife.' +</P> + +<P> +He was aware that her affection for him was not to be spoken of in +the same way as his for her, but he found much happiness in only +being allowed to love and cherish her; and with the patient +perseverance that was one remarkable feature in his character, he +went on striving to deepen and increase her love when most other men +would have given up the endeavour, made themselves content with half +a heart, and turned to some other object of attainment. All this +time Philip was troubled by a dream that recurred whenever he was +over-fatigued, or otherwise not in perfect health. Over and over +again in this first year of married life he dreamt this dream; +perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never varied. It was +always of Kinraid's return; Kinraid was full of life in Philip's +dream, though in his waking hours he could and did convince himself +by all the laws of probability that his rival was dead. He never +remembered the exact sequence of events in that terrible dream after +he had roused himself, with a fight and a struggle, from his +feverish slumbers. He was generally sitting up in bed when he found +himself conscious, his heart beating wildly, with a conviction of +Kinraid's living presence somewhere near him in the darkness. +Occasionally Sylvia was disturbed by his agitation, and would +question him about his dreams, having, like most of her class at +that time, great faith in their prophetic interpretation; but Philip +never gave her any truth in his reply. +</P> + +<P> +After all, and though he did not acknowledge it even to himself, the +long-desired happiness was not so delicious and perfect as he had +anticipated. Many have felt the same in their first year of married +life; but the faithful, patient nature that still works on, striving +to gain love, and capable itself of steady love all the while, is a +gift not given to all. +</P> + +<P> +For many weeks after their wedding, Kester never came near them: a +chance word or two from Sylvia showed Philip that she had noticed +this and regretted it; and, accordingly, he made it his business at +the next leisure opportunity to go to Haytersbank (never saying a +word to his wife of his purpose), and seek out Kester. +</P> + +<P> +All the whole place was altered! It was new white-washed, new +thatched: the patches of colour in the surrounding ground were +changed with altered tillage; the great geraniums were gone from the +window, and instead, was a smart knitted blind. Children played +before the house-door; a dog lying on the step flew at Philip; all +was so strange, that it was even the strangest thing of all for +Kester to appear where everything else was so altered! +</P> + +<P> +Philip had to put up with a good deal of crabbed behaviour on the +part of the latter before he could induce Kester to promise to come +down into the town and see Sylvia in her new home. +</P> + +<P> +Somehow, the visit when paid was but a failure; at least, it seemed +so at the time, though probably it broke the ice of restraint which +was forming over the familiar intercourse between Kester and Sylvia. +The old servant was daunted by seeing Sylvia in a strange place, and +stood, sleeking his hair down, and furtively looking about him, +instead of seating himself on the chair Sylvia had so eagerly +brought forward for him. +</P> + +<P> +Then his sense of the estrangement caused by their new positions +infected her, and she began to cry pitifully, saying,— +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Kester! Kester! tell me about Haytersbank! Is it just as it +used to be in feyther's days?' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, a cannot say as it is,' said Kester, thankful to have a +subject started. 'They'n pleughed up t' oud pasture-field, and are +settin' it for 'taters. They're not for much cattle, isn't +Higginses. They'll be for corn in t' next year, a reckon, and +they'll just ha' their pains for their payment. But they're allays +so pig-headed, is folk fra' a distance.' +</P> + +<P> +So they went on discoursing on Haytersbank and the old days, till +Bell Robson, having finished her afternoon nap, came slowly +down-stairs to join them; and after that the conversation became so +broken up, from the desire of the other two to attend and reply as +best they could to her fragmentary and disjointed talk, that Kester +took his leave before long; falling, as he did so, into the formal +and unnaturally respectful manner which he had adopted on first +coming in. +</P> + +<P> +But Sylvia ran after him, and brought him back from the door. +</P> + +<P> +'To think of thy going away, Kester, without either bit or drink; +nay, come back wi' thee, and taste wine and cake.' +</P> + +<P> +Kester stood at the door, half shy, half pleased, while Sylvia, in +all the glow and hurry of a young housekeeper's hospitality, sought +for the decanter of wine, and a wine-glass in the corner cupboard, +and hastily cut an immense wedge of cake, which she crammed into his +hand in spite of his remonstrances; and then she poured him out an +overflowing glass of wine, which Kester would far rather have gone +without, as he knew manners too well to suppose that he might taste +it without having gone through the preliminary ceremony of wishing +the donor health and happiness. He stood red and half smiling, with +his cake in one hand, his wine in the other, and then began,— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + 'Long may ye live,<BR> + Happy may ye he,<BR> + And blest with a num'rous<BR> + Pro-ge-ny.'<BR> +</P> + +<P> +'Theere, that's po'try for yo' as I larnt i' my youth. But there's a +deal to be said as cannot be put int' po'try, an' yet a cannot say +it, somehow. It 'd tax a parson t' say a' as a've getten i' my mind. +It's like a heap o' woo' just after shearin' time; it's worth a +deal, but it tak's a vast o' combin', an' cardin', an' spinnin' +afore it can be made use on. If a were up to t' use o' words, a +could say a mighty deal; but somehow a'm tongue-teed when a come to +want my words most, so a'll only just mak' bold t' say as a think +yo've done pretty well for yo'rsel', getten a house-full o' +furniture' (looking around him as he said this), 'an' vittle an' +clothin' for t' axing, belike, an' a home for t' missus in her time +o' need; an' mebbe not such a bad husband as a once thought yon man +'ud mak'; a'm not above sayin' as he's, mebbe, better nor a took him +for;—so here's to ye both, and wishin' ye health and happiness, ay, +and money to buy yo' another, as country folk say.' +</P> + +<P> +Having ended his oration, much to his own satisfaction, Kester +tossed off his glass of wine, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with +the back of his hand, pocketed his cake, and made off. +</P> + +<P> +That night Sylvia spoke of his visit to her husband. Philip never +said how he himself had brought it to pass, nor did he name the fact +that he had heard the old man come in just as he himself had +intended going into the parlour for tea, but had kept away, as he +thought Sylvia and Kester would most enjoy their interview +undisturbed. And Sylvia felt as if her husband's silence was +unsympathizing, and shut up the feelings that were just beginning to +expand towards him. She sank again into the listless state of +indifference from which nothing but some reference to former days, +or present consideration for her mother, could rouse her. +</P> + +<P> +Hester was almost surprised at Sylvia's evident liking for her. By +slow degrees Hester was learning to love the woman, whose position +as Philip's wife she would have envied so keenly had she not been so +truly good and pious. But Sylvia seemed as though she had given +Hester her whole affection all at once. Hester could not understand +this, while she was touched and melted by the trust it implied. For +one thing Sylvia remembered and regretted—her harsh treatment of +Hester the rainy, stormy night on which the latter had come to +Haytersbank to seek her and her mother, and bring them into +Monkshaven to see the imprisoned father and husband. Sylvia had been +struck with Hester's patient endurance of her rudeness, a rudeness +which she was conscious that she herself should have immediately and +vehemently resented. Sylvia did not understand how a totally +different character from hers might immediately forgive the anger +she could not forget; and because Hester had been so meek at the +time, Sylvia, who knew how passing and transitory was her own anger, +thought that all was forgotten; while Hester believed that the +words, which she herself could not have uttered except under deep +provocation, meant much more than they did, and admired and wondered +at Sylvia for having so entirely conquered her anger against her. +</P> + +<P> +Again, the two different women were divergently affected by the +extreme fondness which Bell had shown towards Hester ever since +Sylvia's wedding-day. Sylvia, who had always received more love from +others than she knew what to do with, had the most entire faith in +her own supremacy in her mother's heart, though at times Hester +would do certain things more to the poor old woman's satisfaction. +Hester, who had craved for the affection which had been withheld +from her, and had from that one circumstance become distrustful of +her own power of inspiring regard, while she exaggerated the delight +of being beloved, feared lest Sylvia should become jealous of her +mother's open display of great attachment and occasional preference +for Hester. But such a thought never entered Sylvia's mind. She was +more thankful than she knew how to express towards any one who made +her mother happy; as has been already said, the contributing to Bell +Robson's pleasures earned Philip more of his wife's smiles than +anything else. And Sylvia threw her whole heart into the words and +caresses she lavished on Hester whenever poor Mrs. Robson spoke of +the goodness and kindness of the latter. Hester attributed more +virtue to these sweet words and deeds of gratitude than they +deserved; they did not imply in Sylvia any victory over evil +temptation, as they would have done in Hester. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to be Sylvia's fate to captivate more people than she +cared to like back again. She turned the heads of John and Jeremiah +Foster, who could hardly congratulate Philip enough on his choice of +a wife. +</P> + +<P> +They had been prepared to be critical on one who had interfered with +their favourite project of a marriage between Philip and Hester; +and, though full of compassion for the cruelty of Daniel Robson's +fate, they were too completely men of business not to have some +apprehension that the connection of Philip Hepburn with the daughter +of a man who was hanged, might injure the shop over which both his +and their name appeared. But all the possible proprieties demanded +that they should pay attention to the bride of their former shopman +and present successor; and the very first visitors whom Sylvia had +received after her marriage had been John and Jeremiah Foster, in +their sabbath-day clothes. They found her in the parlour (so +familiar to both of them!) clear-starching her mother's caps, which +had to be got up in some particular fashion that Sylvia was afraid +of dictating to Phoebe. +</P> + +<P> +She was a little disturbed at her visitors discovering her at this +employment; but she was on her own ground, and that gave her +self-possession; and she welcomed the two old men so sweetly and +modestly, and looked so pretty and feminine, and, besides, so +notable in her handiwork, that she conquered all their prejudices at +one blow; and their first thought on leaving the shop was how to do +her honour, by inviting her to a supper party at Jeremiah Foster's +house. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia was dismayed when she was bidden to this wedding feast, and +Philip had to use all his authority, though tenderly, to make her +consent to go at all. She had been to merry country parties like the +Corneys', and to bright haymaking romps in the open air; but never +to a set stately party at a friend's house. +</P> + +<P> +She would fain have made attendance on her mother an excuse; but +Philip knew he must not listen to any such plea, and applied to +Hester in the dilemma, asking her to remain with Mrs. Robson while he +and Sylvia went out visiting; and Hester had willingly, nay, eagerly +consented—it was much more to her taste than going out. +</P> + +<P> +So Philip and Sylvia set out, arm-in-arm, down Bridge Street, across +the bridge, and then clambered up the hill. On the way he gave her +the directions she asked for about her behaviour as bride and most +honoured guest; and altogether succeeded, against his intention and +will, in frightening her so completely as to the grandeur and +importance of the occasion, and the necessity of remembering certain +set rules, and making certain set speeches and attending to them +when the right time came, that, if any one so naturally graceful +could have been awkward, Sylvia would have been so that night. +</P> + +<P> +As it was, she sate, pale and weary-looking, on the very edge of her +chair; she uttered the formal words which Philip had told her were +appropriate to the occasion, and she heartily wished herself safe at +home and in bed. Yet she left but one unanimous impression on the +company when she went away, namely, that she was the prettiest and +best-behaved woman they had ever seen, and that Philip Hepburn had +done well in choosing her, felon's daughter though she might be. +</P> + +<P> +Both the hosts had followed her into the lobby to help Philip in +cloaking her, and putting on her pattens. They were full of +old-fashioned compliments and good wishes; one speech of theirs came +up to her memory in future years:— +</P> + +<P> +'Now, Sylvia Hepburn,' said Jeremiah, 'I've known thy husband long, +and I don't say but what thou hast done well in choosing him; but if +he ever neglects or ill-uses thee, come to me, and I'll give him a +sound lecture on his conduct. Mind, I'm thy friend from this day +forrards, and ready to take thy part against him!' +</P> + +<P> +Philip smiled as if the day would never come when he should neglect +or ill-use his darling; Sylvia smiled a little, without much +attending to, or caring for, the words that were detaining her, +tired as she was; John and Jeremiah chuckled over the joke; but the +words came up again in after days, as words idly spoken sometimes +do. +</P> + +<P> +Before the end of that first year, Philip had learnt to be jealous +of his wife's new love for Hester. To the latter, Sylvia gave the +free confidence on many things which Philip fancied she withheld +from him. A suspicion crossed his mind, from time to time, that +Sylvia might speak of her former lover to Hester. It would be not +unnatural, he thought, if she did so, believing him to be dead; but +the idea irritated him. +</P> + +<P> +He was entirely mistaken, however; Sylvia, with all her apparent +frankness, kept her deep sorrows to herself. She never mentioned her +father's name, though he was continually present to her mind. Nor +did she speak of Kinraid to human being, though, for his sake, her +voice softened when, by chance, she spoke to a passing sailor; and +for his sake her eyes lingered on such men longer than on others, +trying to discover in them something of the old familiar gait; and +partly for his dead sake, and partly because of the freedom of the +outlook and the freshness of the air, she was glad occasionally to +escape from the comfortable imprisonment of her 'parlour', and the +close streets around the market-place, and to mount the cliffs and +sit on the turf, gazing abroad over the wide still expanse of the +open sea; for, at that height, even breaking waves only looked like +broken lines of white foam on the blue watery plain. +</P> + +<P> +She did not want any companion on these rambles, which had somewhat +of the delight of stolen pleasures; for all the other respectable +matrons and town-dwellers whom she knew were content to have always +a business object for their walk, or else to stop at home in their +own households; and Sylvia was rather ashamed of her own yearnings +for solitude and open air, and the sight and sound of the +mother-like sea. She used to take off her hat, and sit there, her +hands clasping her knees, the salt air lifting her bright curls, +gazing at the distant horizon over the sea, in a sad dreaminess of +thought; if she had been asked on what she meditated, she could not +have told you. +</P> + +<P> +But, by-and-by, the time came when she was a prisoner in the house; +a prisoner in her room, lying in bed with a little baby by her +side—her child, Philip's child. His pride, his delight knew no +bounds; this was a new fast tie between them; this would reconcile +her to the kind of life that, with all its respectability and +comfort, was so different from what she had lived before, and which +Philip had often perceived that she felt to be dull and restraining. +He already began to trace in the little girl, only a few days old, +the lovely curves that he knew so well by heart in the mother's +face. Sylvia, too, pale, still, and weak, was very happy; yes, +really happy for the first time since her irrevocable marriage. For +its irrevocableness had weighed much upon her with a sense of dull +hopelessness; she felt all Philip's kindness, she was grateful to +him for his tender regard towards her mother, she was learning to +love him as well as to like and respect him. She did not know what +else she could have done but marry so true a friend, and she and her +mother so friendless; but, at the same time, it was like lead on her +morning spirits when she awoke and remembered that the decision was +made, the dead was done, the choice taken which comes to most people +but once in their lives. Now the little baby came in upon this state +of mind like a ray of sunlight into a gloomy room. +</P> + +<P> +Even her mother was rejoiced and proud; even with her crazed brain +and broken heart, the sight of sweet, peaceful infancy brought light +to her. All the old ways of holding a baby, of hushing it to sleep, +of tenderly guarding its little limbs from injury, came back, like +the habits of her youth, to Bell; and she was never so happy or so +easy in her mind, or so sensible and connected in her ideas, as when +she had Sylvia's baby in her arms. +</P> + +<P> +It was a pretty sight to see, however familiar to all of us such +things may be—the pale, worn old woman, in her quaint, +old-fashioned country dress, holding the little infant on her knees, +looking at its open, unspeculative eyes, and talking the little +language to it as though it could understand; the father on his +knees, kept prisoner by a small, small finger curled round his +strong and sinewy one, and gazing at the tiny creature with +wondering idolatry; the young mother, fair, pale, and smiling, +propped up on pillows in order that she, too, might see the +wonderful babe; it was astonishing how the doctor could come and go +without being drawn into the admiring vortex, and look at this baby +just as if babies came into the world every day. +</P> + +<P> +'Philip,' said Sylvia, one night, as he sate as still as a mouse in +her room, imagining her to be asleep. He was by her bed-side in a +moment. +</P> + +<P> +'I've been thinking what she's to be called. Isabella, after mother; +and what were yo'r mother's name?' +</P> + +<P> +'Margaret,' said he. +</P> + +<P> +'Margaret Isabella; Isabella Margaret. Mother's called Bell. She +might be called Bella.' +</P> + +<P> +'I could ha' wished her to be called after thee.' +</P> + +<P> +She made a little impatient movement. +</P> + +<P> +'Nay; Sylvia's not a lucky name. Best be called after thy mother and +mine. And I want for to ask Hester to be godmother.' +</P> + +<P> +'Anything thou likes, sweetheart. Shall we call her Rose, after +Hester Rose?' +</P> + +<P> +'No, no!' said Sylvia; 'she mun be called after my mother, or thine, +or both. I should like her to be called Bella, after mother, because +she's so fond of baby.' +</P> + +<P> +'Anything to please thee, darling.' +</P> + +<P> +'Don't say that as if it didn't signify; there's a deal in having a +pretty name,' said Sylvia, a little annoyed. 'I ha' allays hated +being called Sylvia. It were after father's mother, Sylvia Steele.' +</P> + +<P> +'I niver thought any name in a' the world so sweet and pretty as +Sylvia,' said Philip, fondly; but she was too much absorbed in her +own thoughts to notice either his manner or his words. +</P> + +<P> +'There, yo'll not mind if it is Bella, because yo' see my mother is +alive to be pleased by its being named after her, and Hester may be +godmother, and I'll ha' t' dove-coloured silk as yo' gave me afore +we were married made up into a cloak for it to go to church in.' +</P> + +<P> +'I got it for thee,' said Philip, a little disappointed. 'It'll be +too good for the baby.' +</P> + +<P> +'Eh! but I'm so careless, I should be spilling something on it? But +if thou got it for me I cannot find i' my heart for t' wear it on +baby, and I'll have it made into a christening gown for mysel'. But +I'll niver feel at my ease in it, for fear of spoiling it.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well! an' if thou does spoil it, love, I'll get thee another. I +make account of riches only for thee; that I may be able to get thee +whativer thou's a fancy for, for either thysel', or thy mother.' +</P> + +<P> +She lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put up her lips to +kiss him for these words. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps on that day Philip reached the zenith of his life's +happiness. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap31"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +EVIL OMENS +</H3> + +<P> +The first step in Philip's declension happened in this way. Sylvia +had made rapid progress in her recovery; but now she seemed at a +stationary point of weakness; wakeful nights succeeding to languid +days. Occasionally she caught a little sleep in the afternoons, but +she usually awoke startled and feverish. +</P> + +<P> +One afternoon Philip had stolen upstairs to look at her and his +child; but the efforts he made at careful noiselessness made the +door creak on its hinges as he opened it. The woman employed to +nurse her had taken the baby into another room that no sound might +rouse her from her slumber; and Philip would probably have been +warned against entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping had +he been perceived by the nurse. As it was, he opened the door, made +a noise, and Sylvia started up, her face all one flush, her eyes +wild and uncertain; she looked about her as if she did not know +where she was; pushed the hair off her hot forehead; all which +actions Philip saw, dismayed and regretful. But he kept still, +hoping that she would lie down and compose herself. Instead she +stretched out her arms imploringly, and said, in a voice full of +yearning and tears,— +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! Charley! come to me—come to me!' and then as she more fully +became aware of the place where she was, her actual situation, she +sank back and feebly began to cry. Philip's heart boiled within him; +any man's would under the circumstances, but he had the sense of +guilty concealment to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. Her +weak cry after another man, too, irritated him, partly through his +anxious love, which made him wise to know how much physical harm she +was doing herself. At this moment he stirred, or unintentionally +made some sound: she started up afresh, and called out,— +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, who's theere? Do, for God's sake, tell me who yo' are!' +</P> + +<P> +'It's me,' said Philip, coming forwards, striving to keep down the +miserable complication of love and jealousy, and remorse and anger, +that made his heart beat so wildly, and almost took him out of +himself. Indeed, he must have been quite beside himself for the +time, or he could never have gone on to utter the unwise, cruel +words he did. But she spoke first, in a distressed and plaintive +tone of voice. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Philip, I've been asleep, and yet I think I was awake! And I +saw Charley Kinraid as plain as iver I see thee now, and he wasn't +drowned at all. I'm sure he's alive somewheere; he were so clear and +life-like. Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?' +</P> + +<P> +She wrung her hands in feverish distress. Urged by passionate +feelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to quench the +agitation which was doing her harm, Philip spoke, hardly knowing +what he said. +</P> + +<P> +'Kinraid's dead, I tell yo', Sylvie! And what kind of a woman are +yo' to go dreaming of another man i' this way, and taking on so +about him, when yo're a wedded wife, with a child as yo've borne to +another man?' +</P> + +<P> +In a moment he could have bitten out his tongue. She looked at him +with the mute reproach which some of us see (God help us!) in the +eyes of the dead, as they come before our sad memories in the +night-season; looked at him with such a solemn, searching look, +never saying a word of reply or defence. Then she lay down, +motionless and silent. He had been instantly stung with remorse for +his speech; the words were not beyond his lips when an agony had +entered his heart; but her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumb +and motionless as if by a spell. +</P> + +<P> +Now he rushed to the bed on which she lay, and half knelt, half +threw himself upon it, imploring her to forgive him; regardless for +the time of any evil consequences to her, it seemed as if he must +have her pardon—her relenting—at any price, even if they both died +in the act of reconciliation. But she lay speechless, and, as far as +she could be, motionless, the bed trembling under her with the +quivering she could not still. +</P> + +<P> +Philip's wild tones caught the nurse's ears, and she entered full of +the dignified indignation of wisdom. +</P> + +<P> +'Are yo' for killing yo'r wife, measter?' she asked. 'She's noane so +strong as she can bear flytin' and scoldin', nor will she be for +many a week to come. Go down wi' ye, and leave her i' peace if yo're +a man as can be called a man!' +</P> + +<P> +Her anger was rising as she caught sight of Sylvia's averted face. +It was flushed crimson, her eyes full of intense emotion of some +kind, her lips compressed; but an involuntary twitching +overmastering her resolute stillness from time to time. Philip, who +did not see the averted face, nor understand the real danger in +which he was placing his wife, felt as though he must have one word, +one responsive touch of the hand which lay passive in his, which was +not even drawn away from the kisses with which he covered it, any +more than if it had been an impassive stone. The nurse had fairly to +take him by the shoulders, and turn him out of the room. +</P> + +<P> +In half an hour the doctor had to be summoned. Of course, the nurse +gave him her version of the events of the afternoon, with much +<I>animus</I> against Philip; and the doctor thought it his duty to have +some very serious conversation with him. +</P> + +<P> +'I do assure you, Mr. Hepburn, that, in the state your wife has been +in for some days, it was little less than madness on your part to +speak to her about anything that could give rise to strong emotion.' +</P> + +<P> +'It was madness, sir!' replied Philip, in a low, miserable tone of +voice. The doctor's heart was touched, in spite of the nurse's +accusations against the scolding husband. Yet the danger was now too +serious for him to mince matters. +</P> + +<P> +'I must tell you that I cannot answer for her life, unless the +greatest precautions are taken on your part, and unless the measures +I shall use have the effect I wish for in the next twenty-four +hours. She is on the verge of a brain fever. Any allusion to the +subject which has been the final cause of the state in which she now +is must be most cautiously avoided, even to a chance word which may +bring it to her memory.' +</P> + +<P> +And so on; but Philip seemed to hear only this: then he might not +express contrition, or sue for pardon, he must go on unforgiven +through all this stress of anxiety; and even if she recovered the +doctor warned him of the undesirableness of recurring to what had +passed! +</P> + +<P> +Heavy miserable times of endurance and waiting have to be passed +through by all during the course of their lives; and Philip had had +his share of such seasons, when the heart, and the will, and the +speech, and the limbs, must be bound down with strong resolution to +patience. +</P> + +<P> +For many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden to see Sylvia, as +the very sound of his footstep brought on a recurrence of the fever +and convulsive movement. Yet she seemed, from questions she feebly +asked the nurse, to have forgotten all that had happened on the day +of her attack from the time when she dropped off to sleep. But how +much she remembered of after occurrences no one could ascertain. She +was quiet enough when, at length, Philip was allowed to see her. But +he was half jealous of his child, when he watched how she could +smile at it, while she never changed a muscle of her face at all he +could do or say. +</P> + +<P> +And of a piece with this extreme quietude and reserve was her +behaviour to him when at length she had fully recovered, and was +able to go about the house again. Philip thought many a time of the +words she had used long before—before their marriage. Ominous words +they were. +</P> + +<P> +'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me to +forget.' +</P> + +<P> +Philip was tender even to humility in his conduct towards her. But +nothing stirred her from her fortress of reserve. And he knew she +was so different; he knew how loving, nay, passionate, was her +nature—vehement, demonstrative—oh! how could he stir her once more +into expression, even if the first show or speech she made was of +anger? Then he tried being angry with her himself; he was sometimes +unjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke her +into defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness. He +only seemed to drive her love away still more. +</P> + +<P> +If any one had known all that was passing in that household, while +yet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis, +their hearts would have been sorry for the man who lingered long at +the door of the room in which his wife sate cooing and talking to +her baby, and sometimes laughing back to it, or who was soothing the +querulousness of failing age with every possible patience of love; +sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for the profusion of +tenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only by stealth +caught the echoes of what ought to have been his. +</P> + +<P> +It was so difficult to complain, too; impossible, in fact. +Everything that a wife could do from duty she did; but the love +seemed to have fled, and, in such cases, no reproaches or complaints +can avail to bring it back. So reason outsiders, and are convinced +of the result before the experiment is made. But Philip could not +reason, or could not yield to reason; and so he complained and +reproached. She did not much answer him; but he thought that her +eyes expressed the old words,— +</P> + +<P> +'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me to +forget.' +</P> + +<P> +However, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, that, even in the +most tender and stable masculine natures, at the supremest season of +their lives, there is room for other thoughts and passions than such +as are connected with love. Even with the most domestic and +affectionate men, their emotions seem to be kept in a cell distinct +and away from their actual lives. Philip had other thoughts and +other occupations than those connected with his wife during all this +time. +</P> + +<P> +An uncle of his mother's, a Cumberland 'statesman', of whose +existence he was barely conscious, died about this time, leaving to +his unknown great-nephew four or five hundred pounds, which put him +at once in a different position with regard to his business. +Henceforward his ambition was roused,—such humble ambition as +befitted a shop-keeper in a country town sixty or seventy years ago. +To be respected by the men around him had always been an object with +him, and was, perhaps, becoming more so than ever now, as a sort of +refuge from his deep, sorrowful mortification in other directions. +He was greatly pleased at being made a sidesman; and, in preparation +for the further honour of being churchwarden, he went regularly +twice a day to church on Sundays. There was enough religious feeling +in him to make him disguise the worldly reason for such conduct from +himself. He believed that he went because he thought it right to +attend public worship in the parish church whenever it was offered +up; but it may be questioned of him, as of many others, how far he +would have been as regular in attendance in a place where he was not +known. With this, however, we have nothing to do. The fact was that +he went regularly to church, and he wished his wife to accompany him +to the pew, newly painted, with his name on the door, where he sate +in full sight of the clergyman and congregation. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia had never been in the habit of such regular church-going, and +she felt it as a hardship, and slipped out of the duty as often as +ever she could. In her unmarried days, she and her parents had gone +annually to the mother-church of the parish in which Haytersbank was +situated: on the Monday succeeding the Sunday next after the Romish +Saint's Day, to whom the church was dedicated, there was a great +feast or wake held; and, on the Sunday, all the parishioners came to +church from far and near. Frequently, too, in the course of the +year, Sylvia would accompany one or other of her parents to Scarby +Moorside afternoon service,—when the hay was got in, and the corn +not ready for cutting, or the cows were dry and there was no +afternoon milking. Many clergymen were languid in those days, and +did not too curiously inquire into the reasons which gave them such +small congregations in country parishes. +</P> + +<P> +Now she was married, this weekly church-going which Philip seemed to +expect from her, became a tie and a small hardship, which connected +itself with her life of respectability and prosperity. 'A crust of +bread and liberty' was much more accordant to Sylvia's nature than +plenty of creature comforts and many restraints. Another wish of +Philip's, against which she said no word, but constantly rebelled in +thought and deed, was his desire that the servant he had engaged +during the time of her illness to take charge of the baby, should +always carry it whenever it was taken out for a walk. Sylvia often +felt, now she was strong, as if she would far rather have been +without the responsibility of having this nursemaid, of whom she +was, in reality, rather afraid. The good side of it was that it set +her at liberty to attend to her mother at times when she would have +been otherwise occupied with her baby; but Bell required very little +from any one: she was easily pleased, unexacting, and methodical +even in her dotage; preserving the quiet, undemonstrative habits of +her earlier life now that the faculty of reason, which had been at +the basis of the formation of such habits, was gone. She took great +delight in watching the baby, and was pleased to have it in her care +for a short time; but she dozed so much that it prevented her having +any strong wish on the subject. +</P> + +<P> +So Sylvia contrived to get her baby as much as possible to herself, +in spite of the nursemaid; and, above all, she would carry it out, +softly cradled in her arms, warm pillowed on her breast, and bear it +to the freedom and solitude of the sea-shore on the west side of the +town where the cliffs were not so high, and there was a good space +of sand and shingle at all low tides. +</P> + +<P> +Once here, she was as happy as she ever expected to be in this +world. The fresh sea-breeze restored something of the colour of +former days to her cheeks, the old buoyancy to her spirits; here she +might talk her heart-full of loving nonsense to her baby; here it +was all her own; no father to share in it, no nursemaid to dispute +the wisdom of anything she did with it. She sang to it, she tossed +it; it crowed and it laughed back again, till both were weary; and +then she would sit down on a broken piece of rock, and fall to +gazing on the advancing waves catching the sunlight on their crests, +advancing, receding, for ever and for ever, as they had done all her +life long—as they did when she had walked with them that once by +the side of Kinraid; those cruel waves that, forgetful of the happy +lovers' talk by the side of their waters, had carried one away, and +drowned him deep till he was dead. Every time she sate down to look +at the sea, this process of thought was gone through up to this +point; the next step would, she knew, bring her to the question she +dared not, must not ask. He was dead; he must be dead; for was she +not Philip's wife? Then came up the recollection of Philip's speech, +never forgotten, only buried out of sight: 'What kind of a woman are +yo' to go on dreaming of another man, and yo' a wedded wife?' She +used to shudder as if cold steel had been plunged into her warm, +living body as she remembered these words; cruel words, harmlessly +provoked. They were too much associated with physical pains to be +dwelt upon; only their memory was always there. She paid for these +happy rambles with her baby by the depression which awaited her on +her re-entrance into the dark, confined house that was her home; its +very fulness of comfort was an oppression. Then, when her husband +saw her pale and fatigued, he was annoyed, and sometimes upbraided +her for doing what was so unnecessary as to load herself with her +child. She knew full well it was not that that caused her weariness. +By-and-by, when he inquired and discovered that all these walks were +taken in one direction, out towards the sea, he grew jealous of her +love for the inanimate ocean. Was it connected in her mind with the +thought of Kinraid? Why did she so perseveringly, in wind or cold, +go out to the sea-shore; the western side, too, where, if she went +but far enough, she would come upon the mouth of the Haytersbank +gully, the point at which she had last seen Kinraid? Such fancies +haunted Philip's mind for hours after she had acknowledged the +direction of her walks. But he never said a word that could +distinctly tell her he disliked her going to the sea, otherwise she +would have obeyed him in this, as in everything else; for absolute +obedience to her husband seemed to be her rule of life at this +period—obedience to him who would so gladly have obeyed her +smallest wish had she but expressed it! She never knew that Philip +had any painful association with the particular point on the +sea-shore that she instinctively avoided, both from a consciousness +of wifely duty, and also because the sight of it brought up so much +sharp pain. +</P> + +<P> +Philip used to wonder if the dream that preceded her illness was the +suggestive cause that drew her so often to the shore. Her illness +consequent upon that dream had filled his mind, so that for many +months he himself had had no haunting vision of Kinraid to disturb +his slumbers. But now the old dream of Kinraid's actual presence by +Philip's bedside began to return with fearful vividness. Night after +night it recurred; each time with some new touch of reality, and +close approach; till it was as if the fate that overtakes all men +were then, even then, knocking at his door. +</P> + +<P> +In his business Philip prospered. Men praised him because he did +well to himself. He had the perseverance, the capability for +head-work and calculation, the steadiness and general forethought +which might have made him a great merchant if he had lived in a +large city. Without any effort of his own, almost, too, without +Coulson's being aware of it, Philip was now in the position of +superior partner; the one to suggest and arrange, while Coulson only +carried out the plans that emanated from Philip. The whole work of +life was suited to the man: he did not aspire to any different +position, only to the full development of the capabilities of that +which he already held. He had originated several fresh schemes with +regard to the traffic of the shop; and his old masters, with all +their love of tried ways, and distrust of everything new, had been +candid enough to confess that their successors' plans had resulted +in success. 'Their successors.' Philip was content with having the +power when the exercise of it was required, and never named his own +important share in the new improvements. Possibly, if he had, +Coulson's vanity might have taken the alarm, and he might not have +been so acquiescent for the future. As it was, he forgot his own +subordinate share, and always used the imperial 'we', 'we thought', +'it struck us,' &c. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap32"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +RESCUED FROM THE WAVES +</H3> + +<P> +Meanwhile Hester came and went as usual; in so quiet and methodical +a way, with so even and undisturbed a temper, that she was almost +forgotten when everything went well in the shop or household. She +was a star, the brightness of which was only recognized in times of +darkness. She herself was almost surprised at her own increasing +regard for Sylvia. She had not thought she should ever be able to +love the woman who had been such a laggard in acknowledging Philip's +merits; and from all she had ever heard of Sylvia before she came to +know her, from the angry words with which Sylvia had received her +when she had first gone to Haytersbank Farm, Hester had intended to +remain on friendly terms, but to avoid intimacy. But her kindness to +Bell Robson had won both the mother's and daughter's hearts; and in +spite of herself, certainly against her own mother's advice, she had +become the familiar friend and welcome guest of the household. +</P> + +<P> +Now the very change in Sylvia's whole manner and ways, which grieved +and vexed Philip, made his wife the more attractive to Hester. +Brought up among Quakers, although not one herself, she admired and +respected the staidness and outward peacefulness common amongst the +young women of that sect. Sylvia, whom she had expected to find +volatile, talkative, vain, and wilful, was quiet and still, as if +she had been born a Friend: she seemed to have no will of her own; +she served her mother and child for love; she obeyed her husband in +all things, and never appeared to pine after gaiety or pleasure. And +yet at times Hester thought, or rather a flash came across her mind, +as if all things were not as right as they seemed. Philip looked +older, more care-worn; nay, even Hester was obliged to allow to +herself that she had heard him speak to his wife in sharp, aggrieved +tones. Innocent Hester! she could not understand how the very +qualities she so admired in Sylvia were just what were so foreign to +her nature that the husband, who had known her from a child, felt +what an unnatural restraint she was putting upon herself, and would +have hailed petulant words or wilful actions with an unspeakable +thankfulness for relief. +</P> + +<P> +One day—it was in the spring of 1798—Hester was engaged to stay to +tea with the Hepburns, in order that after that early meal she might +set to again in helping Philip and Coulson to pack away the winter +cloths and flannels, for which there was no longer any use. The +tea-time was half-past four; about four o'clock a heavy April shower +came on, the hail pattering against the window-panes so as to awaken +Mrs. Robson from her afternoon's nap. She came down the corkscrew +stairs, and found Phoebe in the parlour arranging the tea-things. +</P> + +<P> +Phoebe and Mrs. Robson were better friends than Phoebe and her young +mistress; and so they began to talk a little together in a +comfortable, familiar way. Once or twice Philip looked in, as if he +would be glad to see the tea-table in readiness; and then Phoebe +would put on a spurt of busy bustle, which ceased almost as soon as +his back was turned, so eager was she to obtain Mrs. Robson's +sympathy in some little dispute that had occurred between her and +the nurse-maid. The latter had misappropriated some hot water, +prepared and required by Phoebe, to the washing of the baby's +clothes; it was a long story, and would have tired the patience of +any one in full possession of their senses; but the details were +just within poor Bell's comprehension, and she was listening with +the greatest sympathy. Both the women were unaware of the lapse of +time; but it was of consequence to Philip, as the extra labour was +not to be begun until after tea, and the daylight hours were +precious. +</P> + +<P> +At a quarter to five Hester and he came in, and then Phoebe began to +hurry. Hester went up to sit by Bell and talk to her. Philip spoke +to Phoebe in the familiar words of country-folk. Indeed, until his +marriage, Phoebe had always called him by his Christian name, and +had found it very difficult to change it into 'master.' +</P> + +<P> +'Where's Sylvie?' said he. +</P> + +<P> +'Gone out wi' t' babby,' replied Phoebe. +</P> + +<P> +'Why can't Nancy carry it out?' asked Philip. +</P> + +<P> +It was touching on the old grievance: he was tired, and he spoke +with sharp annoyance. Phoebe might easily have told him the real +state of the case; Nancy was busy at her washing, which would have +been reason enough. But the nursemaid had vexed her, and she did not +like Philip's sharpness, so she only said,— +</P> + +<P> +'It's noane o' my business; it's yo' t' look after yo'r own wife and +child; but yo'r but a lad after a'.' +</P> + +<P> +This was not conciliatory speech, and just put the last stroke to +Philip's fit of ill-temper. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm not for my tea to-night,' said he, to Hester, when all was +ready. 'Sylvie's not here, and nothing is nice, or as it should be. +I'll go and set to on t' stock-taking. Don't yo' hurry, Hester; stop +and chat a bit with th' old lady.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay, Philip,' said Hester, 'thou's sadly tired; just take this cup +o' tea; Sylvia 'll be grieved if yo' haven't something.' +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvia doesn't care whether I'm full or fasting,' replied he, +impatiently putting aside the cup. 'If she did she'd ha' taken care +to be in, and ha' seen to things being as I like them.' +</P> + +<P> +Now in general Philip was the least particular of men about meals; +and to do Sylvia justice, she was scrupulously attentive to every +household duty in which old Phoebe would allow her to meddle, and +always careful to see after her husband's comforts. But Philip was +too vexed at her absence to perceive the injustice of what he was +saying, nor was he aware how Bell Robson had been attending to what +he said. But she was sadly discomfited by it, understanding just +enough of the grievance in hand to think that her daughter was +neglectful of those duties which she herself had always regarded as +paramount to all others; nor could Hester convince her that Philip +had not meant what he said; neither could she turn the poor old +woman's thoughts from the words which had caused her distress. +</P> + +<P> +Presently Sylvia came in, bright and cheerful, although breathless +with hurry. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh,' said she, taking off her wet shawl, 'we've had to shelter from +such a storm of rain, baby and me—but see! she's none the worse for +it, as bonny as iver, bless her.' +</P> + +<P> +Hester began some speech of admiration for the child in order to +prevent Bell from delivering the lecture she felt sure was coming +down on the unsuspecting Sylvia; but all in vain. +</P> + +<P> +'Philip's been complaining on thee, Sylvie,' said Bell, in the way +in which she had spoken to her daughter when she was a little child; +grave and severe in tone and look, more than in words. 'I forget +justly what about, but he spoke on thy neglecting him continual. +It's not right, my lass, it's not right; a woman should—but my +head's very tired, and all I can think on to say is, it's not +right.' +</P> + +<P> +'Philip been complaining of me, and to mother!' said Sylvia, ready +to burst into tears, so grieved and angry was she. +</P> + +<P> +'No!' said Hester, 'thy mother has taken it a little too strong; he +were vexed like at his tea not being ready.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia said no more, but the bright colour faded from her cheek, and +the contraction of care returned to her brow. She occupied herself +with taking off her baby's walking things. Hester lingered, anxious +to soothe and make peace; she was looking sorrowfully at Sylvia, +when she saw tears dropping on the baby's cloak, and then it seemed +as if she must speak a word of comfort before going to the +shop-work, where she knew she was expected by both Philip and +Coulson. She poured out a cup of tea, and coming close up to Sylvia, +and kneeling down by her, she whispered,— +</P> + +<P> +'Just take him this into t' ware-room; it'll put all to rights if +thou'll take it to him wi' thy own hands.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia looked up, and Hester then more fully saw how she had been +crying. She whispered in reply, for fear of disturbing her mother,— +</P> + +<P> +'I don't mind anything but his speaking ill on me to mother. I know +I'm for iver trying and trying to be a good wife to him, an' it's +very dull work; harder than yo' think on, Hester,—an' I would ha' +been home for tea to-night only I was afeared of baby getting wet +wi' t' storm o' hail as we had down on t' shore; and we sheltered +under a rock. It's a weary coming home to this dark place, and to +find my own mother set against me.' +</P> + +<P> +'Take him his tea, like a good lassie. I'll answer for it he'll be +all right. A man takes it hardly when he comes in tired, a-thinking +his wife '11 be there to cheer him up a bit, to find her off, and +niver know nought of t' reason why.' +</P> + +<P> +'I'm glad enough I've getten a baby,' said Sylvia, 'but for aught +else I wish I'd niver been married, I do!' +</P> + +<P> +'Hush thee, lass!' said Hester, rising up indignant; 'now that is a +sin. Eh! if thou only knew the lot o' some folk. But let's talk no +more on that, that cannot be helped; go, take him his tea, for it's +a sad thing to think on him fasting all this time.' +</P> + +<P> +Hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her change of +position; and the word fasting caught Mrs. Robson's ear, as she sate +at her knitting by the chimney-corner. +</P> + +<P> +'Fasting? he said thou didn't care if he were full or fasting. +Lassie! it's not right in thee, I say; go, take him his tea at +once.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had been suckling, to +Nancy, who having done her washing, had come for her charge, to put +it to bed. Sylvia kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad, +passionate tenderness as she did so. Then she took the cup of tea; +but she said, rather defiantly, to Hester,— +</P> + +<P> +'I'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it'll ease her +mind.' +</P> + +<P> +Then louder to her mother, she added,— +</P> + +<P> +'Mother, I'll take him his tea, though I couldn't help the being +out.' +</P> + +<P> +If the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she was +going to do it was the reverse. Hester followed her slowly into the +ware-room, with intentional delay, thinking that her presence might +be an obstacle to their mutually understanding one another. Sylvia +held the cup and plate of bread and butter out to Philip, but +avoided meeting his eye, and said not a word of explanation, or +regret, or self-justification. If she had spoken, though ever so +crossly, Philip would have been relieved, and would have preferred +it to her silence. He wanted to provoke her to speech, but did not +know how to begin. +</P> + +<P> +'Thou's been out again wandering on that sea-shore!' said he. She +did not answer him. 'I cannot think what's always taking thee there, +when one would ha' thought a walk up to Esdale would be far more +sheltered, both for thee and baby in such weather as this. Thou'll +be having that baby ill some of these days.' +</P> + +<P> +At this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved as though she were +going to say something. Oh, how he wished she would, that they might +come to a wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again, and a +tender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence for all his +hasty words, or unreasonable vexation. But she had come resolved not +to speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much emotion. +Only as she was going away she turned and said,— +</P> + +<P> +'Philip, mother hasn't many more years to live; dunnot grieve her, +and set her again' me by finding fault wi' me afore her. Our being +wed were a great mistake; but before t' poor old widow woman let us +make as if we were happy.' +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvie! Sylvie!' he called after her. She must have heard, but she +did not turn. He went after her, and seized her by the arm rather +roughly; she had stung him to the heart with her calm words, which +seemed to reveal a long-formed conviction. +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvie!' said he, almost fiercely, 'what do yo' mean by what you've +said? Speak! I will have an answer.' +</P> + +<P> +He almost shook her: she was half frightened by his vehemence of +behaviour, which she took for pure anger, while it was the outburst +of agonized and unrequited love. +</P> + +<P> +'Let me go! Oh, Philip, yo' hurt me!' +</P> + +<P> +Just at this moment Hester came up; Philip was ashamed of his +passionate ways in her serene presence, and loosened his grasp of +his wife, and she ran away; ran into her mother's empty room, as to +a solitary place, and there burst into that sobbing, miserable +crying which we instinctively know is too surely lessening the +length of our days on earth to be indulged in often. +</P> + +<P> +When she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak and quiet for a +time, she listened in dreading expectation of the sound of his +footstep coming in search of her to make friends. But he was +detained below on business, and never came. Instead, her mother came +clambering up the stairs; she was now in the habit of going to bed +between seven and eight, and to-night she was retiring at even an +earlier hour. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia sprang up and drew down the window-blind, and made her face +and manner as composed as possible, in order to soothe and comfort +her mother's last waking hours. She helped her to bed with gentle +patience; the restraint imposed upon her by her tender filial love +was good for her, though all the time she was longing to be alone to +have another wild outburst. When her mother was going off to sleep, +Sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. Then she +gazed out at the evening sky, high above the tiled roofs of the +opposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peaceful +heavens took possession of her once more. +</P> + +<P> +'It's my only comfort,' said she to herself; 'and there's no earthly +harm in it. I would ha' been at home to his tea, if I could; but +when he doesn't want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby is +either in my arms or asleep; why, I'll go any cry my fill out under +yon great quiet sky. I cannot stay in t' house to be choked up wi' +my tears, nor yet to have him coming about me either for scolding or +peace-making.' +</P> + +<P> +So she put on her things and went out again; this time along the +High Street, and up the long flights of steps towards the parish +church, and there she stood and thought that here she had first met +Kinraid, at Darley's burying, and she tried to recall the very look +of all the sad, earnest faces round the open grave—the whole scene, +in fact; and let herself give way to the miserable regrets she had +so often tried to control. Then she walked on, crying bitterly, +almost unawares to herself; on through the high, bleak fields at the +summit of the cliffs; fields bounded by loose stone fences, and far +from all sight of the habitation of man. But, below, the sea rose +and raged; it was high water at the highest tide, and the wind blew +gustily from the land, vainly combating the great waves that came +invincibly up with a roar and an impotent furious dash against the +base of the cliffs below. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and rebound of many +waters, like the shock of mighty guns, whenever the other sound of +the blustering gusty wind was lulled for an instant. She was more +quieted by this tempest of the elements than she would have been had +all nature seemed as still as she had imagined it to be while she +was yet in-doors and only saw a part of the serene sky. +</P> + +<P> +She fixed on a certain point, in her own mind, which she would +reach, and then turn back again. It was where the outline of the +land curved inwards, dipping into a little bay. Here the field-path +she had hitherto followed descended somewhat abruptly to a cluster +of fishermen's cottages, hardly large enough to be called a village; +and then the narrow roadway wound up the rising ground till it again +reached the summit of the cliffs that stretched along the coast for +many and many a mile. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia said to herself that she would turn homewards when she came +within sight of this cove,—Headlington Cove, they called it. All +the way along she had met no one since she had left the town, but +just as she had got over the last stile, or ladder of +stepping-stones, into the field from which the path descended, she +came upon a number of people—quite a crowd, in fact; men moving +forward in a steady line, hauling at a rope, a chain, or something +of that kind; boys, children, and women holding babies in their +arms, as if all were fain to come out and partake in some general +interest. +</P> + +<P> +They kept within a certain distance from the edge of the cliff, and +Sylvia, advancing a little, now saw the reason why. The great cable +the men held was attached to some part of a smack, which could now +be seen by her in the waters below, half dismantled, and all but a +wreck, yet with her deck covered with living men, as far as the +waning light would allow her to see. The vessel strained to get free +of the strong guiding cable; the tide was turning, the wind was +blowing off shore, and Sylvia knew without being told, that almost +parallel to this was a line of sunken rocks that had been fatal to +many a ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner channel +instead of keeping out to sea for miles, and then steering in +straight for Monkshaven port. And the ships that had been thus lost +had been in good plight and order compared to this vessel, which +seemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail. +</P> + +<P> +By this time, the crowd—the fishermen from the hamlet down below, +with their wives and children—all had come but the bedridden—had +reached the place where Sylvia stood. The women, in a state of wild +excitement, rushed on, encouraging their husbands and sons by words, +even while they hindered them by actions; and, from time to time, +one of them would run to the edge of the cliff and shout out some +brave words of hope in her shrill voice to the crew on the deck +below. Whether these latter heard it or not, no one could tell; but +it seemed as if all human voice must be lost in the tempestuous stun +and tumult of wind and wave. It was generally a woman with a child +in her arms who so employed herself. As the strain upon the cable +became greater, and the ground on which they strove more uneven, +every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women who were +unencumbered held by the dear rope on which so many lives were +depending. On they came, a long line of human beings, black against +the ruddy sunset sky. As they came near Sylvia, a woman cried out,— +</P> + +<P> +'Dunnot stand idle, lass, but houd on wi' us; there's many a bonny +life at stake, and many a mother's heart a-hangin' on this bit o' +hemp. Tak' houd, lass, and give a firm grip, and God remember thee +i' thy need.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia needed no second word; a place was made for her, and in an +instant more the rope was pulling against her hands till it seemed +as though she was holding fire in her bare palms. Never a one of +them thought of letting go for an instant, though when all was over +many of their hands were raw and bleeding. Some strong, experienced +fishermen passed a word along the line from time to time, giving +directions as to how it should be held according to varying +occasions; but few among the rest had breath or strength enough to +speak. The women and children that accompanied them ran on before, +breaking down the loose stone fences, so as to obviate delay or +hindrance; they talked continually, exhorting, encouraging, +explaining. From their many words and fragmentary sentences, Sylvia +learnt that the vessel was supposed to be a Newcastle smack sailing +from London, that had taken the dangerous inner channel to save +time, and had been caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to +withstand; and that if by some daring contrivance of the fishermen +who had first seen her the cable had not been got ashore, she would +have been cast upon the rocks before this, and 'all on board +perished'. +</P> + +<P> +'It were dayleet then,' quoth one woman; 'a could see their faces, +they were so near. They were as pale as dead men, an' one was +prayin' down on his knees. There was a king's officer aboard, for I +saw t' gowd about him.' +</P> + +<P> +'He'd maybe come from these hom'ard parts, and be comin' to see his +own folk; else it's no common for king's officers to sail in aught +but king's ships.' +</P> + +<P> +'Eh! but it's gettin' dark! See there's t' leeghts in t' houses in +t' New Town! T' grass is crispin' wi' t' white frost under out feet. +It'll be a hard tug round t' point, and then she'll be gettin' into +still waters.' +</P> + +<P> +One more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was past; the +vessel—or what remained of her—was in the harbour, among the +lights and cheerful sounds of safety. The fishermen sprang down the +cliff to the quay-side, anxious to see the men whose lives they had +saved; the women, weary and over-excited, began to cry. Not Sylvia, +however; her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day: +her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that they +were saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before. +</P> + +<P> +She would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands with +them all round. But instead she must go home, and well would it be +with her if she was in time for her husband's supper, and escaped +any notice of her absence. So she separated herself from the groups +of women who sate on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the +return of such of their husbands as could resist the fascinations of +the Monkshaven public houses. As Sylvia went down the church steps, +she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vessel +into port. +</P> + +<P> +'There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenant +as had comed as passenger. It were a good job as we could manage +her. Good-neet to thee, thou'll sleep all t' sounder for havin' lent +a hand.' +</P> + +<P> +The street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of +the heights above; the decent shops and houses had all their +shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time. +Already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and +Sylvia scarcely met any one. +</P> + +<P> +She went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by the +private door. All was still; the basins of bread and milk that she +and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the +fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. Nancy had gone +to bed, Phoebe dozed in the kitchen; Philip was still in the +ware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for +Hester had gone home to her mother. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip, after the manner +in which they had parted. All the despondency of her life became +present to her again as she sate down within her home. She had +forgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came back +again. +</P> + +<P> +Still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. She took her basin +up, and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her baby +upstairs, and ran away to attend to it. When it had been fed and +hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted by +some unusual noise in her room. +</P> + +<P> +She found Mrs. Robson awake, and restless, and ailing; dwelling much +on what Philip had said in his anger against Sylvia. It was really +necessary for her daughter to remain with her; so Sylvia stole out, +and went quickly down-stairs to Philip—now sitting tired and worn +out, and eating his supper with little or no appetite—and told him +she meant to pass the night with her mother. +</P> + +<P> +His answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so it +seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she had +done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of her +mother's indisposition. +</P> + +<P> +As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down his half-finished +basin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face hidden in his +folded arms. The wick of the candle grew long and black, and fell, +and sputtered, and guttered; he sate on, unheeding either it or the +pale gray fire that was dying out—dead at last. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap33"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AN APPARITION +</H3> + +<P> +Mrs. Robson was very poorly all night long. Uneasy thoughts seemed +to haunt and perplex her brain, and she neither slept nor woke, but +was restless and uneasy in her talk and movements. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia lay down by her, but got so little sleep, that at length she +preferred sitting in the easy-chair by the bedside. Here she dropped +off to slumber in spite of herself; the scene of the evening before +seemed to be repeated; the cries of the many people, the heavy roar +and dash of the threatening waves, were repeated in her ears; and +something was said to her through all the conflicting noises,—what +it was she could not catch, though she strained to hear the hoarse +murmur that, in her dream, she believed to convey a meaning of the +utmost importance to her. +</P> + +<P> +This dream, that mysterious, only half-intelligible sound, recurred +whenever she dozed, and her inability to hear the words uttered +distressed her so much, that at length she sate bolt upright, +resolved to sleep no more. Her mother was talking in a +half-conscious way; Philip's speech of the evening before was +evidently running in her mind. +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvie, if thou're not a good wife to him, it'll just break my +heart outright. A woman should obey her husband, and not go her own +gait. I never leave the house wi'out telling father, and getting his +leave.' +</P> + +<P> +And then she began to cry pitifully, and to say unconnected things, +till Sylvia, to soothe her, took her hand, and promised never to +leave the house without asking her husband's permission, though in +making this promise, she felt as if she were sacrificing her last +pleasure to her mother's wish; for she knew well enough that Philip +would always raise objections to the rambles which reminded her of +her old free open-air life. +</P> + +<P> +But to comfort and cherish her mother she would have done anything; +yet this very morning that was dawning, she must go and ask his +permission for a simple errand, or break her word. +</P> + +<P> +She knew from experience that nothing quieted her mother so well as +balm-tea; it might be that the herb really possessed some sedative +power; it might be only early faith, and often repeated experience, +but it had always had a tranquillizing effect; and more than once, +during the restless hours of the night, Mrs. Robson had asked for it; +but Sylvia's stock of last year's dead leaves was exhausted. Still +she knew where a plant of balm grew in the sheltered corner of +Haytersbank Farm garden; she knew that the tenants who had succeeded +them in the occupation of the farm had had to leave it in +consequence of a death, and that the place was unoccupied; and in +the darkness she had planned that if she could leave her mother +after the dawn came, and she had attended to her baby, she would +walk quickly to the old garden, and gather the tender sprigs which +she was sure to find there. +</P> + +<P> +Now she must go and ask Philip; and till she held her baby to her +breast, she bitterly wished that she were free from the duties and +chains of matrimony. But the touch of its waxen fingers, the hold of +its little mouth, made her relax into docility and gentleness. She +gave it back to Nancy to be dressed, and softly opened the door of +Philip's bed-room. +</P> + +<P> +'Philip!' said she, gently. 'Philip!' +</P> + +<P> +He started up from dreams of her; of her, angry. He saw her there, +rather pale with her night's watch and anxiety, but looking meek, +and a little beseeching. +</P> + +<P> +'Mother has had such a bad night! she fancied once as some balm-tea +would do her good—it allays used to: but my dried balm is all gone, +and I thought there'd be sure to be some in t' old garden at +Haytersbank. Feyther planted a bush just for mother, wheere it +allays came up early, nigh t' old elder-tree; and if yo'd not mind, +I could run theere while she sleeps, and be back again in an hour, +and it's not seven now.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thou's not wear thyself out with running, Sylvie,' said Philip, +eagerly; 'I'll get up and go myself, or, perhaps,' continued he, +catching the shadow that was coming over her face, 'thou'd rather go +thyself: it's only that I'm so afraid of thy tiring thyself.' +</P> + +<P> +'It'll not tire me,' said Sylvia. 'Afore I was married, I was out +often far farther than that, afield to fetch up t' kine, before my +breakfast.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, go if thou will,' said Philip. 'But get somewhat to eat +first, and don't hurry; there's no need for that.' +</P> + +<P> +She had got her hat and shawl, and was off before he had finished +his last words. +</P> + +<P> +The long High Street was almost empty of people at that early hour; +one side was entirely covered by the cool morning shadow which lay +on the pavement, and crept up the opposite houses till only the +topmost story caught the rosy sunlight. Up the hill-road, through +the gap in the stone wall, across the dewy fields, Sylvia went by +the very shortest path she knew. +</P> + +<P> +She had only once been at Haytersbank since her wedding-day. On that +occasion the place had seemed strangely and dissonantly changed by +the numerous children who were diverting themselves before the open +door, and whose playthings and clothes strewed the house-place, and +made it one busy scene of confusion and untidiness, more like the +Corneys' kitchen in former times, than her mother's orderly and +quiet abode. Those little children were fatherless now; and the +house was shut up, awaiting the entry of some new tenant. There were +no shutters to shut; the long low window was blinking in the rays of +the morning sun; the house and cow-house doors were closed, and no +poultry wandered about the field in search of stray grains of corn, +or early worms. It was a strange and unfamiliar silence, and struck +solemnly on Sylvia's mind. Only a thrush in the old orchard down in +the hollow, out of sight, whistled and gurgled with continual shrill +melody. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia went slowly past the house and down the path leading to the +wild, deserted bit of garden. She saw that the last tenants had had +a pump sunk for them, and resented the innovation, as though the +well she was passing could feel the insult. Over it grew two +hawthorn trees; on the bent trunk of one of them she used to sit, +long ago: the charm of the position being enhanced by the possible +danger of falling into the well and being drowned. The rusty unused +chain was wound round the windlass; the bucket was falling to pieces +from dryness. A lean cat came from some outhouse, and mewed +pitifully with hunger; accompanying Sylvia to the garden, as if glad +of some human companionship, yet refusing to allow itself to be +touched. Primroses grew in the sheltered places, just as they +formerly did; and made the uncultivated ground seem less deserted +than the garden, where the last year's weeds were rotting away, and +cumbering the ground. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia forced her way through the berry bushes to the herb-plot, and +plucked the tender leaves she had come to seek; sighing a little all +the time. Then she retraced her steps; paused softly before the +house-door, and entered the porch and kissed the senseless wood. +</P> + +<P> +She tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her arms, meaning to +carry it home and befriend it; but it was scared by her endeavour +and ran back to its home in the outhouse, making a green path across +the white dew of the meadow. Then Sylvia began to hasten home, +thinking, and remembering—at the stile that led into the road she +was brought short up. +</P> + +<P> +Some one stood in the lane just on the other side of the gap; his +back was to the morning sun; all she saw at first was the uniform of +a naval officer, so well known in Monkshaven in those days. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, although her +clothes almost brushed his, as he stood there still. She had not +gone a yard—no, not half a yard—when her heart leaped up and fell +again dead within her, as if she had been shot. +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvia!' he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and passionate +love. 'Sylvia!' +</P> + +<P> +She looked round; he had turned a little, so that the light fell +straight on his face. It was bronzed, and the lines were +strengthened; but it was the same face she had last seen in +Haytersbank Gully three long years ago, and had never thought to see +in life again. +</P> + +<P> +He was close to her and held out his fond arms; she went fluttering +towards their embrace, as if drawn by the old fascination; but when +she felt them close round her, she started away, and cried out with +a great pitiful shriek, and put her hands up to her forehead as if +trying to clear away some bewildering mist. +</P> + +<P> +Then she looked at him once more, a terrible story in her eyes, if +he could but have read it. +</P> + +<P> +Twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice the words were +overwhelmed by the surges of her misery, which bore them back into +the depths of her heart. +</P> + +<P> +He thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, and he attempted +to soothe her with soft murmurs of love, and to woo her to his +outstretched hungry arms once more. But when she saw this motion of +his, she made a gesture as though pushing him away; and with an +inarticulate moan of agony she put her hands to her head once more, +and turning away began to run blindly towards the town for +protection. +</P> + +<P> +For a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at her behaviour; +and then he thought it accounted for by the shock of his accost, and +that she needed time to understand the unexpected joy. So he +followed her swiftly, ever keeping her in view, but not trying to +overtake her too speedily. +</P> + +<P> +'I have frightened my poor love,' he kept thinking. And by this +thought he tried to repress his impatience and check the speed he +longed to use; yet he was always so near behind that her quickened +sense heard his well-known footsteps following, and a mad notion +flashed across her brain that she would go to the wide full river, +and end the hopeless misery she felt enshrouding her. There was a +sure hiding-place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe +beneath the rushing waters borne landwards by the morning tide. +</P> + +<P> +No one can tell what changed her course; perhaps the thought of her +sucking child; perhaps her mother; perhaps an angel of God; no one +on earth knows, but as she ran along the quay-side she all at once +turned up an entry, and through an open door. +</P> + +<P> +He, following all the time, came into a quiet dark parlour, with a +cloth and tea-things on the table ready for breakfast; the change +from the bright sunny air out of doors to the deep shadow of this +room made him think for the first moment that she had passed on, and +that no one was there, and he stood for an instant baffled, and +hearing no sound but the beating of his own heart; but an +irrepressible sobbing gasp made him look round, and there he saw her +cowered behind the door, her face covered tight up, and sharp +shudders going through her whole frame. +</P> + +<P> +'My love, my darling!' said he, going up to her, and trying to raise +her, and to loosen her hands away from her face. 'I've been too +sudden for thee: it was thoughtless in me; but I have so looked +forward to this time, and seeing thee come along the field, and go +past me, but I should ha' been more tender and careful of thee. Nay! +let me have another look of thy sweet face.' +</P> + +<P> +All this he whispered in the old tones of manoeuvring love, in that +voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life, and had not +heard, for all her longing, save in her dreams. +</P> + +<P> +She tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into the hidden +shadow—to sink into the ground out of sight. +</P> + +<P> +Once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face, to let him +hear her speak. +</P> + +<P> +But she only moaned. +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvia!' said he, thinking he could change his tactics, and pique +her into speaking, that he would make a pretence of suspicion and +offence. +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvia! one would think you weren't glad to see me back again at +length. I only came in late last night, and my first thought on +wakening was of you; it has been ever since I left you.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia took her hands away from her face; it was gray as the face of +death; her awful eyes were passionless in her despair. +</P> + +<P> +'Where have yo' been?' she asked, in slow, hoarse tones, as if her +voice were half strangled within her. +</P> + +<P> +'Been!' said he, a red light coming into his eyes, as he bent his +looks upon her; now, indeed, a true and not an assumed suspicion +entering his mind. +</P> + +<P> +'Been!' he repeated; then, coming a step nearer to her, and taking +her hand, not tenderly this time, but with a resolution to be +satisfied. +</P> + +<P> +'Did not your cousin—Hepburn, I mean—did not he tell you?—he saw +the press-gang seize me,—I gave him a message to you—I bade you +keep true to me as I would be to you.' +</P> + +<P> +Between every clause of this speech he paused and gasped for her +answer; but none came. Her eyes dilated and held his steady gaze +prisoner as with a magical charm—neither could look away from the +other's wild, searching gaze. When he had ended, she was silent for +a moment, then she cried out, shrill and fierce,— +</P> + +<P> +'Philip!' No answer. +</P> + +<P> +Wilder and shriller still, 'Philip!' she cried. +</P> + +<P> +He was in the distant ware-room completing the last night's work +before the regular shop hours began; before breakfast, also, that +his wife might not find him waiting and impatient. +</P> + +<P> +He heard her cry; it cut through doors, and still air, and great +bales of woollen stuff; he thought that she had hurt herself, that +her mother was worse, that her baby was ill, and he hastened to the +spot whence the cry proceeded. +</P> + +<P> +On opening the door that separated the shop from the sitting-room, +he saw the back of a naval officer, and his wife on the ground, +huddled up in a heap; when she perceived him come in, she dragged +herself up by means of a chair, groping like a blind person, and +came and stood facing him. +</P> + +<P> +The officer turned fiercely round, and would have come towards +Philip, who was so bewildered by the scene that even yet he did not +understand who the stranger was, did not perceive for an instant +that he saw the realization of his greatest dread. +</P> + +<P> +But Sylvia laid her hand on Kinraid's arm, and assumed to herself +the right of speech. Philip did not know her voice, it was so +changed. +</P> + +<P> +'Philip,' she said, 'this is Kinraid come back again to wed me. He +is alive; he has niver been dead, only taken by t' press-gang. And +he says yo' saw it, and knew it all t' time. Speak, was it so?' +</P> + +<P> +Philip knew not what to say, whither to turn, under what refuge of +words or acts to shelter. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia's influence was keeping Kinraid silent, but he was rapidly +passing beyond it. +</P> + +<P> +'Speak!' he cried, loosening himself from Sylvia's light grasp, and +coming towards Philip, with a threatening gesture. 'Did I not bid +you tell her how it was? Did I not bid you say how I would be +faithful to her, and she was to be faithful to me? Oh! you damned +scoundrel! have you kept it from her all that time, and let her +think me dead, or false? Take that!' +</P> + +<P> +His closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his head with +bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach; but Sylvia came swift +between the blow and its victim. +</P> + +<P> +'Charley, thou shan't strike him,' she said. 'He is a damned +scoundrel' (this was said in the hardest, quietest tone) 'but he is +my husband.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! thou false heart!' exclaimed Kinraid, turning sharp on her. 'If +ever I trusted woman, I trusted you, Sylvia Robson.' +</P> + +<P> +He made as though throwing her from him, with a gesture of contempt +that stung her to life. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Charley!' she cried, springing to him, 'dunnot cut me to the +quick; have pity on me, though he had none. I did so love thee; it +was my very heart-strings as gave way when they told me thou was +drowned—feyther, and th' Corneys, and all, iverybody. Thy hat and +t' bit o' ribbon I gave thee were found drenched and dripping wi' +sea-water; and I went mourning for thee all the day long—dunnot +turn away from me; only hearken this once, and then kill me dead, +and I'll bless yo',—and have niver been mysel' since; niver ceased +to feel t' sun grow dark and th' air chill and dreary when I thought +on t' time when thou was alive. I did, my Charley, my own love! And +I thought thou was dead for iver, and I wished I were lying beside +thee. Oh, Charley! Philip, theere, where he stands, could tell yo' +this was true. Philip, wasn't it so?' +</P> + +<P> +'Would God I were dead!' moaned forth the unhappy, guilty man. But +she had turned to Kinraid, and was speaking again to him, and +neither of them heard or heeded him—they were drawing closer and +closer together—she, with her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking +eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +'And feyther was taken up, and all for setting some free as t' +press-gang had gotten by a foul trick; and he were put i' York +prison, and tried, and hung!—hung! Charley!—good kind feyther was +hung on a gallows; and mother lost her sense and grew silly in +grief, and we were like to be turned out on t' wide world, and poor +mother dateless—and I thought yo' were dead—oh! I thought yo' were +dead, I did—oh, Charley, Charley!' +</P> + +<P> +By this time they were in each other's arms, she with her head on +his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break. +</P> + +<P> +Philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her away; but +Charley held her tight, mutely defying Philip. Unconsciously she was +Philip's protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might +have been his death if strong will could have aided it to kill. +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvie!' said he, grasping her tight. 'Listen to me. He didn't love +yo' as I did. He had loved other women. I, yo'—yo' alone. He loved +other girls before yo', and had left off loving 'em. I—I wish God +would free my heart from the pang; but it will go on till I die, +whether yo' love me or not. And then—where was I? Oh! that very +night that he was taken, I was a-thinking on yo' and on him; and I +might ha' given yo' his message, but I heard them speaking of him as +knew him well; talking of his false fickle ways. How was I to know +he would keep true to thee? It might be a sin in me, I cannot say; +my heart and my sense are gone dead within me. I know this, I've +loved yo' as no man but me ever loved before. Have some pity and +forgiveness on me, if it's only because I've been so tormented with +my love.' +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it faded away into +despair as she made no sign of having even heard his words. He let +go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side. +</P> + +<P> +'I may die,' he said, 'for my life is ended!' +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvia!' spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent, 'your marriage is no +marriage. You were tricked into it. You are my wife, not his. I am +your husband; we plighted each other our troth. See! here is my half +of the sixpence.' +</P> + +<P> +He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his +neck. +</P> + +<P> +'When they stripped me and searched me in th' French prison, I +managed to keep this. No lies can break the oath we swore to each +other. I can get your pretence of a marriage set aside. I'm in +favour with my admiral, and he'll do a deal for me, and back me out. +Come with me; your marriage shall be set aside, and we'll be married +again, all square and above-board. Come away. Leave that damned +fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest sailor; we'll be +true, whatever has come and gone. Come, Sylvia.' +</P> + +<P> +His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the +door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. Just then the +baby cried. +</P> + +<P> +'Hark!' said she, starting away from Kinraid, 'baby's crying for me. +His child—yes, it is his child—I'd forgotten that—forgotten all. +I'll make my vow now, lest I lose mysel' again. I'll never forgive +yon man, nor live with him as his wife again. All that's done and +ended. He's spoilt my life,—he's spoilt it for as long as iver I +live on this earth; but neither yo' nor him shall spoil my soul. It +goes hard wi' me, Charley, it does indeed. I'll just give yo' one +kiss—one little kiss—and then, so help me God, I'll niver see nor +hear till—no, not that, not that is needed—I'll niver see—sure +that's enough—I'll never see yo' again on this side heaven, so help +me God! I'm bound and tied, but I've sworn my oath to him as well as +yo': there's things I will do, and there's things I won't. Kiss me +once more. God help me, he's gone!' +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap34"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXIV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A RECKLESS RECRUIT +</H3> + +<P> +She lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched out, her face +unseen. Every now and then a thrill ran through her body: she was +talking to herself all the time with incessant low incontinence of +words. +</P> + +<P> +Philip stood near her, motionless: he did not know whether she was +conscious of his presence; in fact, he knew nothing but that he and +she were sundered for ever; he could only take in that one idea, and +it numbed all other thought. +</P> + +<P> +Once more her baby cried for the comfort she alone could give. +</P> + +<P> +She rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to walk; her +glazed eyes fell upon Philip as he instinctively made a step to hold +her steady. No light came into her eyes any more than if she had +looked upon a perfect stranger; not even was there the contraction +of dislike. Some other figure filled her mind, and she saw him no +more than she saw the inanimate table. That way of looking at him +withered him up more than any sign of aversion would have done. +</P> + +<P> +He watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and vanish out of +sight; and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme bodily +weakness. +</P> + +<P> +The door of communication between the parlour and the shop was +opened. That was the first event of which Philip took note; but +Phoebe had come in unawares to him, with the intention of removing +the breakfast things on her return from market, and seeing them +unused, and knowing that Sylvia had sate up all night with her +mother, she had gone back to the kitchen. Philip had neither seen +nor heard her. +</P> + +<P> +Now Coulson came in, amazed at Hepburn's non-appearance in the shop. +</P> + +<P> +'Why! Philip, what's ado? How ill yo' look, man!' exclaimed he, +thoroughly alarmed by Philip's ghastly appearance. 'What's the +matter?' +</P> + +<P> +'I!' said Philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. 'Why should there +be anything the matter?' +</P> + +<P> +His instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him shrink from +his misery being noticed, much more made any subject for explanation +or sympathy. +</P> + +<P> +'There may be nothing the matter wi' thee,' said Coulson, 'but +thou's the look of a corpse on thy face. I was afeared something was +wrong, for it's half-past nine, and thee so punctual!' +</P> + +<P> +He almost guarded Philip into the shop, and kept furtively watching +him, and perplexing himself with Philip's odd, strange ways. +</P> + +<P> +Hester, too, observed the heavy broken-down expression on Philip's +ashen face, and her heart ached for him; but after that first +glance, which told her so much, she avoided all appearance of +noticing or watching. Only a shadow brooded over her sweet, calm +face, and once or twice she sighed to herself. +</P> + +<P> +It was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing their store +of gossip from the country, or the town—from the farm or the +quay-side. +</P> + +<P> +Among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the night before +furnished a large topic; and by-and-by Philip heard a name that +startled him into attention. +</P> + +<P> +The landlady of a small public-house much frequented by sailors was +talking to Coulson. +</P> + +<P> +'There was a sailor aboard of her as knowed Kinraid by sight, in +Shields, years ago; and he called him by his name afore they were +well out o' t' river. And Kinraid was no ways set up, for all his +lieutenant's uniform (and eh! but they say he looks handsome in +it!); but he tells 'm all about it—how he was pressed aboard a +man-o'-war, an' for his good conduct were made a warrant officer, +boatswain, or something!' +</P> + +<P> +All the people in the shop were listening now; Philip alone seemed +engrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as to leave no possible +chance of creases in it; yet he lost not a syllable of the good +woman's narration. +</P> + +<P> +She, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had attracted, went +on with fresh vigour. +</P> + +<P> +'An' there's a gallant captain, one Sir Sidney Smith, and he'd a +notion o' goin' smack into a French port, an' carryin' off a vessel +from right under their very noses; an' says he, "Which of yo' +British sailors 'll go along with me to death or glory?" So Kinraid +stands up like a man, an' "I'll go with yo', captain," he says. So +they, an' some others as brave, went off, an' did their work, an' +choose whativer it was, they did it famously; but they got caught by +them French, an' were clapped into prison i' France for iver so +long; but at last one Philip—Philip somethin' (he were a Frenchman, +I know)—helped 'em to escape, in a fishin'-boat. But they were +welcomed by th' whole British squadron as was i' t' Channel for t' +piece of daring they'd done i' cuttin' out t' ship from a French +port; an' Captain Sir Sidney Smith was made an admiral, an' him as +we used t' call Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, is made a +lieutenant, an' a commissioned officer i' t' King's service; and is +come to great glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night as +is just past!' +</P> + +<P> +A murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed all around +Philip. All this was publicly known about Kinraid,—and how much +more? All Monkshaven might hear tomorrow—nay, to-day—of Philip's +treachery to the hero of the hour; how he had concealed his fate, +and supplanted him in his love. +</P> + +<P> +Philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which he knew +must follow. Any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the +people's favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury; +and among a primitive set of country-folk, who recognize the wild +passion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason and +self-restraint, any story of baulked affections, or treachery in +such matters, spreads like wildfire. +</P> + +<P> +Philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain before +him, if only Kinraid spoke the word. His head was bent down while he +thus listened and reflected. He half resolved on doing something; he +lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the little +strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look +at themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved. +</P> + +<P> +The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face, +made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning's +events. He saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with +something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as he +remembered the square, upright build of Kinraid; his fine uniform, +with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his dark +eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his white +teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn. +</P> + +<P> +The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness to active +despair. +</P> + +<P> +He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and +on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless +of Phoebe's look and words, began to eat it before he even left the +place; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed it +to carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might +hear what he had done, and point their fingers at him. +</P> + +<P> +He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tight +together, he went upstairs. +</P> + +<P> +First of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs, +in which his baby slept. He dearly loved the child, and many a time +would run in and play a while with it; and in such gambols he and +Sylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life. +</P> + +<P> +The little Bella was having her morning slumber; Nancy used to tell +long afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was so +strange she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh upon +eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayers +when they got up, and when they went to bed. +</P> + +<P> +Then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long, +lingering, soft, fond kiss. And on tip-toe he passed away into the +room where his aunt lay; his aunt who had been so true a friend to +him! He was thankful to know that in her present state she was safe +from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of the +shame to come. +</P> + +<P> +He had not meant to see Sylvia again; he dreaded the look of her +hatred, her scorn, but there, outside her mother's bed, she lay, +apparently asleep. Mrs. Robson, too, was sleeping, her face towards +the wall. Philip could not help it; he went to have one last look at +his wife. She was turned towards her mother, her face averted from +him; he could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet +quivering: he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand that +lay listless by her side. As his hot breath neared that hand it was +twitched away, and a shiver ran through the whole prostrate body. +And then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by her +misery,—misery that he had caused. +</P> + +<P> +He sighed heavily; but he went away, down-stairs, and away for ever. +Only as he entered the parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes, +one of himself, one of Sylvia, done in the first month of their +marriage, by some wandering artist, if so he could be called. They +were hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames; black +profiles, with the lights done in gold; about as poor semblances of +humanity as could be conceived; but Philip went up, and after +looking for a minute or so at Sylvia's, he took it down, and +buttoned his waistcoat over it. +</P> + +<P> +It was the only thing he took away from his home. +</P> + +<P> +He went down the entry on to the quay. The river was there, and +waters, they say, have a luring power, and a weird promise of rest +in their perpetual monotony of sound. But many people were there, if +such a temptation presented itself to Philip's mind; the sight of +his fellow-townsmen, perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him up +another entry—the town is burrowed with such—back into the High +Street, which he straightway crossed into a well-known court, out of +which rough steps led to the summit of the hill, and on to the fells +and moors beyond. +</P> + +<P> +He plunged and panted up this rough ascent. From the top he could +look down on the whole town lying below, severed by the bright +shining river into two parts. To the right lay the sea, shimmering +and heaving; there were the cluster of masts rising out of the +little port; the irregular roofs of the houses; which of them, +thought he, as he carried his eye along the quay-side to the +market-place, which of them was his? and he singled it out in its +unfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke rising from the +kitchen chimney, where even now Phoebe was cooking the household +meal that he never more must share. +</P> + +<P> +Up at that thought and away, he knew not nor cared not whither. He +went through the ploughed fields where the corn was newly springing; +he came down upon the vast sunny sea, and turned his back upon it +with loathing; he made his way inland to the high green pastures; +the short upland turf above which the larks hung poised 'at heaven's +gate'. He strode along, so straight and heedless of briar and bush, +that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, and looked after him +with their great blank puzzled eyes. +</P> + +<P> +He had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, and was fairly on +the desolate brown moors; through the withered last year's ling and +fern, through the prickly gorse, he tramped, crushing down the +tender shoots of this year's growth, and heedless of the startled +plover's cry, goaded by the furies. His only relief from thought, +from the remembrance of Sylvia's looks and words, was in violent +bodily action. +</P> + +<P> +So he went on till evening shadows and ruddy evening lights came out +upon the wild fells. +</P> + +<P> +He had crossed roads and lanes, with a bitter avoidance of men's +tracks; but now the strong instinct of self-preservation came out, +and his aching limbs, his weary heart, giving great pants and beats +for a time, and then ceasing altogether till a mist swam and +quivered before his aching eyes, warned him that he must find some +shelter and food, or lie down to die. He fell down now, often; +stumbling over the slightest obstacle. He had passed the cattle +pastures; he was among the black-faced sheep; and they, too, ceased +nibbling, and looked after him, and somehow, in his poor wandering +imagination, their silly faces turned to likenesses of Monkshaven +people—people who ought to be far, far away. +</P> + +<P> +'Thou'll be belated on these fells, if thou doesn't tak' heed,' +shouted some one. +</P> + +<P> +Philip looked abroad to see whence the voice proceeded. +</P> + +<P> +An old stiff-legged shepherd, in a smock-frock, was within a couple +of hundred yards. Philip did not answer, but staggered and stumbled +towards him. +</P> + +<P> +'Good lork!' said the man, 'wheere hast ta been? Thou's seen Oud +Harry, I think, thou looks so scared.' +</P> + +<P> +Philip rallied himself, and tried to speak up to the old standard of +respectability; but the effort was pitiful to see, had any one been +by, who could have understood the pain it caused to restrain cries +of bodily and mental agony. +</P> + +<P> +'I've lost my way, that's all.' +</P> + +<P> +''Twould ha' been enough, too, I'm thinkin', if I hadn't come out +after t' ewes. There's t' Three Griffins near at hand: a sup o' +Hollands 'll set thee to reeghts.' +</P> + +<P> +Philip followed faintly. He could not see before him, and was guided +by the sound of footsteps rather than by the sight of the figure +moving onwards. He kept stumbling; and he knew that the old shepherd +swore at him; but he also knew such curses proceeded from no +ill-will, only from annoyance at the delay in going and 'seem' after +t' ewes.' But had the man's words conveyed the utmost expression of +hatred, Philip would neither have wondered at them, nor resented +them. +</P> + +<P> +They came into a wild mountain road, unfenced from the fells. A +hundred yards off, and there was a small public-house, with a broad +ruddy oblong of firelight shining across the tract. +</P> + +<P> +'Theere!' said the old man. 'Thee cannot well miss that. A dunno +tho', thee bees sich a gawby.' +</P> + +<P> +So he went on, and delivered Philip safely up to the landlord. +</P> + +<P> +'Here's a felly as a fund on t' fell side, just as one as if he were +drunk; but he's sober enough, a reckon, only summat's wrong i' his +head, a'm thinkin'.' +</P> + +<P> +'No!' said Philip, sitting down on the first chair he came to. 'I'm +right enough; just fairly wearied out: lost my way,' and he fainted. +</P> + +<P> +There was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting in the +house-place, drinking. He, too, like Philip, had lost his way; but +was turning his blunder to account by telling all manner of +wonderful stories to two or three rustics who had come in ready to +drink on any pretence; especially if they could get good liquor +without paying for it. +</P> + +<P> +The sergeant rose as Philip fell back, and brought up his own mug of +beer, into which a noggin of gin had been put (called in Yorkshire +'dog's-nose'). He partly poured and partly spilt some of this +beverage on Philip's face; some drops went through the pale and +parted lips, and with a start the worn-out man revived. +</P> + +<P> +'Bring him some victual, landlord,' called out the recruiting +sergeant. 'I'll stand shot.' +</P> + +<P> +They brought some cold bacon and coarse oat-cake. The sergeant asked +for pepper and salt; minced the food fine and made it savoury, and +kept administering it by teaspoonfuls; urging Philip to drink from +time to time from his own cup of dog's-nose. +</P> + +<P> +A burning thirst, which needed no stimulant from either pepper or +salt, took possession of Philip, and he drank freely, scarcely +recognizing what he drank. It took effect on one so habitually +sober; and he was soon in that state when the imagination works +wildly and freely. +</P> + +<P> +He saw the sergeant before him, handsome, and bright, and active, in +his gay red uniform, without a care, as it seemed to Philip, taking +life lightly; admired and respected everywhere because of his cloth. +</P> + +<P> +If Philip were gay, and brisk, well-dressed like him, returning with +martial glory to Monkshaven, would not Sylvia love him once more? +Could not he win her heart? He was brave by nature, and the prospect +of danger did not daunt him, if ever it presented itself to his +imagination. +</P> + +<P> +He thought he was cautious in entering on the subject of enlistment +with his new friend, the sergeant; but the latter was twenty times +as cunning as he, and knew by experience how to bait his hook. +</P> + +<P> +Philip was older by some years than the regulation age; but, at that +time of great demand for men, the question of age was lightly +entertained. The sergeant was profuse in statements of the +advantages presented to a man of education in his branch of the +service; how such a one was sure to rise; in fact, it would have +seemed from the sergeant's account, as though the difficulty +consisted in remaining in the ranks. +</P> + +<P> +Philip's dizzy head thought the subject over and over again, each +time with failing power of reason. +</P> + +<P> +At length, almost, as it would seem, by some sleight of hand, he +found the fatal shilling in his palm, and had promised to go before +the nearest magistrate to be sworn in as one of his Majesty's +marines the next morning. And after that he remembered nothing more. +</P> + +<P> +He wakened up in a little truckle-bed in the same room as the +sergeant, who lay sleeping the sleep of full contentment; while +gradually, drop by drop, the bitter recollections of the day before +came, filling up Philip's cup of agony. +</P> + +<P> +He knew that he had received the bounty-money; and though he was +aware that he had been partly tricked into it, and had no hope, no +care, indeed, for any of the advantages so liberally promised him +the night before, yet he was resigned, with utterly despondent +passiveness, to the fate to which he had pledged himself. Anything +was welcome that severed him from his former life, that could make +him forget it, if that were possible; and also welcome anything +which increased the chances of death without the sinfulness of his +own participation in the act. He found in the dark recess of his +mind the dead body of his fancy of the previous night; that he might +come home, handsome and glorious, to win the love that had never +been his. +</P> + +<P> +But he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of his sight—so +full of despair was he. He could eat no breakfast, though the +sergeant ordered of the best. The latter kept watching his new +recruit out of the corner of his eye, expecting a remonstrance, or +dreading a sudden bolt. +</P> + +<P> +But Philip walked with him the two or three miles in the most +submissive silence, never uttering a syllable of regret or +repentance; and before Justice Cholmley, of Holm-Fell Hall, he was +sworn into his Majesty's service, under the name of Stephen Freeman. +With a new name, he began a new life. Alas! the old life lives for +ever! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap35"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THINGS UNUTTERABLE +</H3> + +<P> +After Philip had passed out of the room, Sylvia lay perfectly still, +from very exhaustion. Her mother slept on, happily unconscious of +all the turmoil that had taken place; yes, happily, though the heavy +sleep was to end in death. But of this her daughter knew nothing, +imagining that it was refreshing slumber, instead of an ebbing of +life. Both mother and daughter lay motionless till Phoebe entered +the room to tell Sylvia that dinner was on the table. +</P> + +<P> +Then Sylvia sate up, and put back her hair, bewildered and uncertain +as to what was to be done next; how she should meet the husband to +whom she had discarded all allegiance, repudiated the solemn promise +of love and obedience which she had vowed. +</P> + +<P> +Phoebe came into the room, with natural interest in the invalid, +scarcely older than herself. +</P> + +<P> +'How is t' old lady?' asked she, in a low voice. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia turned her head round to look; her mother had never moved, +but was breathing in a loud uncomfortable manner, that made her +stoop over her to see the averted face more nearly. +</P> + +<P> +'Phoebe!' she cried, 'come here! She looks strange and odd; her eyes +are open, but don't see me. Phoebe! Phoebe!' +</P> + +<P> +'Sure enough, she's in a bad way!' said Phoebe, climbing stiffly on +to the bed to have a nearer view. 'Hold her head a little up t' ease +her breathin' while I go for master; he'll be for sendin' for t' +doctor, I'll be bound.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia took her mother's head and laid it fondly on her breast, +speaking to her and trying to rouse her; but it was of no avail: the +hard, stertorous breathing grew worse and worse. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia cried out for help; Nancy came, the baby in her arms. They +had been in several times before that morning; and the child came +smiling and crowing at its mother, who was supporting her own dying +parent. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Nancy!' said Sylvia; 'what is the matter with mother? yo' can +see her face; tell me quick!' +</P> + +<P> +Nancy set the baby on the bed for all reply, and ran out of the +room, crying out, +</P> + +<P> +'Master! master! Come quick! T' old missus is a-dying!' +</P> + +<P> +This appeared to be no news to Sylvia, and yet the words came on her +with a great shock, but for all that she could not cry; she was +surprised herself at her own deadness of feeling. +</P> + +<P> +Her baby crawled to her, and she had to hold and guard both her +mother and her child. It seemed a long, long time before any one +came, and then she heard muffled voices, and a heavy tramp: it was +Phoebe leading the doctor upstairs, and Nancy creeping in behind to +hear his opinion. +</P> + +<P> +He did not ask many questions, and Phoebe replied more frequently to +his inquiries than did Sylvia, who looked into his face with a +blank, tearless, speechless despair, that gave him more pain than +the sight of her dying mother. +</P> + +<P> +The long decay of Mrs. Robson's faculties and health, of which he was +well aware, had in a certain manner prepared him for some such +sudden termination of the life whose duration was hardly desirable, +although he gave several directions as to her treatment; but the +white, pinched face, the great dilated eye, the slow comprehension +of the younger woman, struck him with alarm; and he went on asking +for various particulars, more with a view of rousing Sylvia, if even +it were to tears, than for any other purpose that the information +thus obtained could answer. +</P> + +<P> +'You had best have pillows propped up behind her—it will not be +for long; she does not know that you are holding her, and it is only +tiring you to no purpose!' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia's terrible stare continued: he put his advice into action, +and gently tried to loosen her clasp, and tender hold. This she +resisted; laying her cheek against her poor mother's unconscious +face. +</P> + +<P> +'Where is Hepburn?' said he. 'He ought to be here!' +</P> + +<P> +Phoebe looked at Nancy, Nancy at Phoebe. It was the latter who +replied, +</P> + +<P> +'He's neither i' t' house nor i' t' shop. A seed him go past t' +kitchen window better nor an hour ago; but neither William Coulson +or Hester Rose knows where he's gone to. +</P> + +<P> +Dr Morgan's lips were puckered up into a whistle, but he made no +sound. +</P> + +<P> +'Give me baby!' he said, suddenly. Nancy had taken her up off the +bed where she had been sitting, encircled by her mother's arm. The +nursemaid gave her to the doctor. He watched the mother's eye, it +followed her child, and he was rejoiced. He gave a little pinch to +the baby's soft flesh, and she cried out piteously; again the same +action, the same result. Sylvia laid her mother down, and stretched +out her arms for her child, hushing it, and moaning over it. +</P> + +<P> +'So far so good!' said Dr Morgan to himself. 'But where is the +husband? He ought to be here.' He went down-stairs to make inquiry +for Philip; that poor young creature, about whose health he had +never felt thoroughly satisfied since the fever after her +confinement, was in an anxious condition, and with an inevitable +shock awaiting her. Her husband ought to be with her, and supporting +her to bear it. +</P> + +<P> +Dr Morgan went into the shop. Hester alone was there. Coulson had +gone to his comfortable dinner at his well-ordered house, with his +common-place wife. If he had felt anxious about Philip's looks and +strange disappearance, he had also managed to account for them in +some indifferent way. +</P> + +<P> +Hester was alone with the shop-boy; few people came in during the +universal Monkshaven dinner-hour. She was resting her head on her +hand, and puzzled and distressed about many things—all that was +implied by the proceedings of the evening before between Philip and +Sylvia; and that was confirmed by Philip's miserable looks and +strange abstracted ways to-day. Oh! how easy Hester would have found +it to make him happy! not merely how easy, but what happiness it +would have been to her to merge her every wish into the one great +object of fulfiling his will. To her, an on-looker, the course of +married life, which should lead to perfect happiness, seemed to +plain! Alas! it is often so! and the resisting forces which make all +such harmony and delight impossible are not recognized by the +bystanders, hardly by the actors. But if these resisting forces are +only superficial, or constitutional, they are but the necessary +discipline here, and do not radically affect the love which will +make all things right in heaven. +</P> + +<P> +Some glimmering of this latter comforting truth shed its light on +Hester's troubled thoughts from time to time. But again, how easy +would it have been to her to tread the maze that led to Philip's +happiness; and how difficult it seemed to the wife he had chosen! +</P> + +<P> +She was aroused by Dr Morgan's voice. +</P> + +<P> +'So both Coulson and Hepburn have left the shop to your care, +Hester. I want Hepburn, though; his wife is in a very anxious state. +Where is he? can you tell me?' +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvia in an anxious state! I've not seen her to-day, but last +night she looked as well as could be.' +</P> + +<P> +'Ay, ay; but many a thing happens in four-and-twenty hours. Her +mother is dying, may be dead by this time; and her husband should be +there with her. Can't you send for him?' +</P> + +<P> +'I don't know where he is,' said Hester. 'He went off from here all +on a sudden, when there was all the market-folks in t' shop; I +thought he'd maybe gone to John Foster's about th' money, for they +was paying a deal in. I'll send there and inquire.' +</P> + +<P> +No! the messenger brought back word that he had not been seen at +their bank all morning. Further inquiries were made by the anxious +Hester, by the doctor, by Coulson; all they could learn was that +Phoebe had seen him pass the kitchen window about eleven o'clock, +when she was peeling the potatoes for dinner; and two lads playing +on the quay-side thought they had seen him among a group of sailors; +but these latter, as far as they could be identified, had no +knowledge of his appearance among them. +</P> + +<P> +Before night the whole town was excited about his disappearance. +Before night Bell Robson had gone to her long home. And Sylvia still +lay quiet and tearless, apparently more unmoved than any other +creature by the events of the day, and the strange vanishing of her +husband. +</P> + +<P> +The only thing she seemed to care for was her baby; she held it +tight in her arms, and Dr Morgan bade them leave it there, its touch +might draw the desired tears into her weary, sleepless eyes, and +charm the aching pain out of them. +</P> + +<P> +They were afraid lest she should inquire for her husband, whose +non-appearance at such a time of sorrow to his wife must (they +thought) seem strange to her. And night drew on while they were all +in this state. She had gone back to her own room without a word when +they had desired her to do so; caressing her child in her arms, and +sitting down on the first chair she came to, with a heavy sigh, as +if even this slight bodily exertion had been too much for her. They +saw her eyes turn towards the door every time it was opened, and +they thought it was with anxious expectation of one who could not be +found, though many were seeking for him in all probable places. +</P> + +<P> +When night came some one had to tell her of her husband's +disappearance; and Dr Morgan was the person who undertook this. +</P> + +<P> +He came into her room about nine o'clock; her baby was sleeping in +her arms; she herself pale as death, still silent and tearless, +though strangely watchful of gestures and sounds, and probably +cognizant of more than they imagined. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, Mrs. Hepburn,' said he, as cheerfully as he could, 'I should +advise your going to bed early; for I fancy your husband won't come +home to-night. Some journey or other, that perhaps Coulson can +explain better than I can, will most likely keep him away till +to-morrow. It's very unfortunate that he should be away at such a +sad time as this, as I'm sure he'll feel when he returns; but we +must make the best of it.' +</P> + +<P> +He watched her to see the effect of his words. +</P> + +<P> +She sighed, that was all. He still remained a little while. She +lifted her head up a little and asked, +</P> + +<P> +'How long do yo' think she was unconscious, doctor? Could she hear +things, think yo', afore she fell into that strange kind o' +slumber?' +</P> + +<P> +'I cannot tell,' said he, shaking his head. 'Was she breathing in +that hard snoring kind of way when you left her this morning?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, I think so; I cannot tell, so much has happened.' +</P> + +<P> +'When you came back to her, after your breakfast, I think you said +she was in much the same position?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, and yet I may be telling yo' lies; if I could but think: but +it's my head as is aching so; doctor, I wish yo'd go, for I need +being alone, I'm so mazed.' +</P> + +<P> +'Good-night, then, for you're a wise woman, I see, and mean to go to +bed, and have a good night with baby there.' +</P> + +<P> +But he went down to Phoebe, and told her to go in from time to time, +and see how her mistress was. +</P> + +<P> +He found Hester Rose and the old servant together; both had been +crying, both were evidently in great trouble about the death and the +mystery of the day. +</P> + +<P> +Hester asked if she might go up and see Sylvia, and the doctor gave +his leave, talking meanwhile with Phoebe over the kitchen fire. +Hester came down again without seeing Sylvia. The door of the room +was bolted, and everything quiet inside. +</P> + +<P> +'Does she know where her husband is, think you?' asked the doctor at +this account of Hester's. 'She's not anxious about him at any rate: +or else the shock of her mother's death has been too much for her. +We must hope for some change in the morning; a good fit of crying, +or a fidget about her husband, would be more natural. Good-night to +you both,' and off he went. +</P> + +<P> +Phoebe and Hester avoided looking at each other at these words. Both +were conscious of the probability of something having gone seriously +wrong between the husband and wife. Hester had the recollection of +the previous night, Phoebe the untasted breakfast of to-day to go +upon. +</P> + +<P> +She spoke first. +</P> + +<P> +'A just wish he'd come home to still folks' tongues. It need niver +ha' been known if t' old lady hadn't died this day of all others. +It's such a thing for t' shop t' have one o' t' partners missin', +an' no one for t' know what's comed on him. It niver happened i' +Fosters' days, that's a' I know.' +</P> + +<P> +'He'll maybe come back yet,' said Hester. 'It's not so very late.' +</P> + +<P> +'It were market day, and a',' continued Phoebe, 'just as if +iverything mun go wrong together; an' a' t' country customers'll go +back wi' fine tale i' their mouths, as Measter Hepburn was strayed +an' missin' just like a beast o' some kind.' +</P> + +<P> +'Hark! isn't that a step?' said Hester suddenly, as a footfall +sounded in the now quiet street; but it passed the door, and the +hope that had arisen on its approach fell as the sound died away. +</P> + +<P> +'He'll noane come to-night,' said Phoebe, who had been as eager a +listener as Hester, however. 'Thou'd best go thy ways home; a shall +stay up, for it's not seemly for us a' t' go to our beds, an' a +corpse in t' house; an' Nancy, as might ha' watched, is gone to her +bed this hour past, like a lazy boots as she is. A can hear, too, if +t' measter does come home; tho' a'll be bound he wunnot; choose +wheere he is, he'll be i' bed by now, for it's well on to eleven. +I'll let thee out by t' shop-door, and stand by it till thou's close +at home, for it's ill for a young woman to be i' t' street so late.' +</P> + +<P> +So she held the door open, and shaded the candle from the flickering +outer air, while Hester went to her home with a heavy heart. +</P> + +<P> +Heavily and hopelessly did they all meet in the morning. No news of +Philip, no change in Sylvia; an unceasing flow of angling and +conjecture and gossip radiating from the shop into the town. +</P> + +<P> +Hester could have entreated Coulson on her knees to cease from +repeating the details of a story of which every word touched on a +raw place in her sensitive heart; moreover, when they talked +together so eagerly, she could not hear the coming footsteps on the +pavement without. +</P> + +<P> +Once some one hit very near the truth in a chance remark. +</P> + +<P> +'It seems strange,' she said, 'how as one man turns up, another just +disappears. Why, it were but upo' Tuesday as Kinraid come back, as +all his own folk had thought to be dead; and next day here's Measter +Hepburn as is gone no one knows wheere!' +</P> + +<P> +'That's t' way i' this world,' replied Coulson, a little +sententiously. 'This life is full o' changes o' one kind or another; +them that's dead is alive; and as for poor Philip, though he was +alive, he looked fitter to be dead when he came into t' shop o' +Wednesday morning.' +</P> + +<P> +'And how does she take it?' nodding to where Sylvia was supposed to +be. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! she's not herself, so to say. She were just stunned by finding +her mother was dying in her very arms when she thought as she were +only sleeping; yet she's never been able to cry a drop; so that t' +sorrow's gone inwards on her brain, and from all I can hear, she +doesn't rightly understand as her husband is missing. T' doctor says +if she could but cry, she'd come to a juster comprehension of +things.' +</P> + +<P> +'And what do John and Jeremiah Foster say to it all?' +</P> + +<P> +'They're down here many a time in t' day to ask if he's come back, +or how she is; for they made a deal on 'em both. They're going t' +attend t' funeral to-morrow, and have given orders as t' shop is to +be shut up in t' morning.' +</P> + +<P> +To the surprise of every one, Sylvia, who had never left her room +since the night of her mother's death, and was supposed to be almost +unconscious of all that was going on in the house, declared her +intention of following her mother to the grave. No one could do more +than remonstrate: no one had sufficient authority to interfere with +her. Dr Morgan even thought that she might possibly be roused to +tears by the occasion; only he begged Hester to go with her, that +she might have the solace of some woman's company. +</P> + +<P> +She went through the greater part of the ceremony in the same hard, +unmoved manner in which she had received everything for days past. +</P> + +<P> +But on looking up once, as they formed round the open grave, she saw +Kester, in his Sunday clothes, with a bit of new crape round his +hat, crying as if his heart would break over the coffin of his good, +kind mistress. +</P> + +<P> +His evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly loosed the +fountain of Sylvia's tears, and her sobs grew so terrible that +Hester feared she would not be able to remain until the end of the +funeral. But she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she +made an effort to go round by the place where Kester stood. +</P> + +<P> +'Come and see me,' was all she could say for crying: and Kester only +nodded his head—he could not speak a word. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap36"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXVI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS +</H3> + +<P> +That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door. +Phoebe opened it. He asked to see Sylvia. +</P> + +<P> +'A know not if she'll see thee,' said Phoebe. 'There's no makin' her +out; sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another.' +</P> + +<P> +'She bid me come and see her,' said Kester. 'Only this mornin', at +missus' buryin', she telled me to come.' +</P> + +<P> +So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was there; and +returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour. An +instant after he was gone, Phoebe heard him return, and carefully +shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and +sitting-room. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia was in the latter when Kester came in, holding her baby close +to her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else, +making Nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to Phoebe's indignation. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes alone +retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. She went up to +Kester, and shook his horny hand, she herself trembling all over. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't talk to me of her,' she said hastily. 'I cannot stand it. +It's a blessing for her to be gone, but, oh——' +</P> + +<P> +She began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and swallowed down +her sobs. +</P> + +<P> +'Kester,' she went on, hastily, 'Charley Kinraid isn't dead; dost ta +know? He's alive, and he were here o' Tuesday—no, Monday, was it? I +cannot tell—but he were here!' +</P> + +<P> +'A knowed as he weren't dead. Every one is a-speaking on it. But a +didn't know as thee'd ha' seen him. A took comfort i' thinkin' as +thou'd ha' been wi' thy mother a' t' time as he were i' t' place.' +</P> + +<P> +'Then he's gone?' said Sylvia. +</P> + +<P> +'Gone; ay, days past. As far as a know, he but stopped a' neet. A +thought to mysel' (but yo' may be sure a said nought to nobody), +he's heerd as our Sylvia were married, and has put it in his pipe, +and ta'en hissel' off to smoke it.' +</P> + +<P> +'Kester!' said Sylvia, leaning forwards, and whispering. 'I saw him. +He was here. Philip saw him. Philip had known as he wasn't dead a' +this time!' +</P> + +<P> +Kester stood up suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +'By goom, that chap has a deal t' answer for.' +</P> + +<P> +A bright red spot was on each of Sylvia's white cheeks; and for a +minute or so neither of them spoke. +</P> + +<P> +Then she went on, still whispering out her words. +</P> + +<P> +'Kester, I'm more afeared than I dare tell any one: can they ha' +met, think yo'? T' very thought turns me sick. I told Philip my +mind, and took a vow again' him—but it would be awful to think on +harm happening to him through Kinraid. Yet he went out that morning, +and has niver been seen or heard on sin'; and Kinraid were just fell +again' him, and as for that matter, so was I; but——' +</P> + +<P> +The red spot vanished as she faced her own imagination. +</P> + +<P> +Kester spoke. +</P> + +<P> +'It's a thing as can be easy looked into. What day an' time were it +when Philip left this house?' +</P> + +<P> +'Tuesday—the day she died. I saw him in her room that morning +between breakfast and dinner; I could a'most swear to it's being +close after eleven. I mind counting t' clock. It was that very morn +as Kinraid were here.' +</P> + +<P> +'A'll go an' have a pint o' beer at t' King's Arms, down on t' +quay-side; it were theere he put up at. An' a'm pretty sure as he +only stopped one night, and left i' t' morning betimes. But a'll go +see.' +</P> + +<P> +'Do,' said Sylvia, 'and go out through t' shop; they're all watching +and watching me to see how I take things; and daren't let on about +t' fire as is burning up my heart. Coulson is i' t' shop, but he'll +not notice thee like Phoebe.' +</P> + +<P> +By-and-by Kester came back. It seemed as though Sylvia had never +stirred; she looked eagerly at him, but did not speak. +</P> + +<P> +'He went away i' Rob Mason's mail-cart, him as tak's t' letters to +Hartlepool. T' lieutenant (as they ca' him down at t' King's Arms; +they're as proud on his uniform as if it had been a new-painted sign +to swing o'er their doors), t' lieutenant had reckoned upo' stayin' +longer wi' 'em; but he went out betimes o' Tuesday morn', an' came +back a' ruffled up, an paid his bill—paid for his breakfast, though +he touched noane on it—an' went off i' Rob postman's mail-cart, as +starts reg'lar at ten o'clock. Corneys has been theere askin' for +him, an' makin' a piece o' work, as he niver went near em; and they +bees cousins. Niver a one among 'em knows as he were here as far as +a could mak' out.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thank yo', Kester,' said Sylvia, falling back in her chair, as if +all the energy that had kept her stiff and upright was gone now that +her anxiety was relieved. +</P> + +<P> +She was silent for a long time; her eyes shut, her cheek laid on her +child's head. Kester spoke next. +</P> + +<P> +'A think it's pretty clear as they'n niver met. But it's a' t' more +wonder where thy husband's gone to. Thee and him had words about it, +and thou telled him thy mind, thou said?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes,' said Sylvia, not moving. 'I'm afeared lest mother knows what +I said to him, there, where she's gone to—I am-' the tears filled +her shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks; 'and yet +it were true, what I said, I cannot forgive him; he's just spoilt my +life, and I'm not one-and-twenty yet, and he knowed how wretched, +how very wretched, I were. A word fra' him would ha' mended it a'; +and Charley had bid him speak the word, and give me his faithful +love, and Philip saw my heart ache day after day, and niver let on +as him I was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he'd +keep true to me, as I were to do to him.' +</P> + +<P> +'A wish a'd been theere; a'd ha' felled him to t' ground,' said +Kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia was silent again: pale and weary she sate, her eyes still +shut. +</P> + +<P> +Then she said, +</P> + +<P> +'Yet he were so good to mother; and mother loved him so. Oh, +Kester!' lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, 'it's +well for folks as can die; they're spared a deal o' misery.' +</P> + +<P> +'Ay!' said he. 'But there's folk as one 'ud like to keep fra' +shirkin' their misery. Think yo' now as Philip is livin'?' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied. +</P> + +<P> +'I dunnot know. I said such things; he deserved 'em all——' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, well, lass!' said Kester, sorry that he had asked the +question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another. +'Neither thee nor me can tell; we can neither help nor hinder, +seein' as he's ta'en hissel' off out on our sight, we'd best not +think on him. A'll try an' tell thee some news, if a can think on it +wi' my mind so full. Thou knows Haytersbank folk ha' flitted, and t' +oud place is empty?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes!' said Sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with +feeling. +</P> + +<P> +'A only telled yo' t' account like for me bein' at a loose end i' +Monkshaven. My sister, her as lived at Dale End an' is a widow, has +comed int' town to live; an' a'm lodging wi' her, an' jobbin' about. +A'm gettin' pretty well to do, an' a'm noane far t' seek, an' a'm +going now: only first a just wanted for t' say as a'm thy oldest +friend, a reckon, and if a can do a turn for thee, or go an errand, +like as a've done to-day, or if it's any comfort to talk a bit to +one who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've only t' send for +me, an' a'd come if it were twenty mile. A'm lodgin' at Peggy +Dawson's, t' lath and plaster cottage at t' right hand o' t' bridge, +a' among t' new houses, as they're thinkin' o' buildin' near t' sea: +no one can miss it.' +</P> + +<P> +He stood up and shook hands with her. As he did so, he looked at her +sleeping baby. +</P> + +<P> +'She's liker yo' than him. A think a'll say, God bless her.' +</P> + +<P> +With the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, baby awoke. She +ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the +disturbance made her cry fretfully. +</P> + +<P> +'Hush thee, darling, hush thee!' murmured her mother; 'there's no +one left to love me but thee, and I cannot stand thy weeping, my +pretty one. Hush thee, my babe, hush thee!' +</P> + +<P> +She whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairs +to bed. +</P> + +<P> +About three weeks after the miserable date of Bell Robson's death +and Philip's disappearance, Hester Rose received a letter from him. +She knew the writing on the address well; and it made her tremble so +much that it was many minutes before she dared to open it, and make +herself acquainted with the facts it might disclose. +</P> + +<P> +But she need not have feared; there were no facts told, unless the +vague date of 'London' might be something to learn. Even that much +might have been found out by the post-mark, only she had been too +much taken by surprise to examine it. +</P> + +<P> +It ran as follows:— +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +'DEAR HESTER,— +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +'Tell those whom it may concern, that I have left Monkshaven for +ever. No one need trouble themselves about me; I am provided for. +Please to make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the Messrs +Foster, and to my partner, William Coulson. Please to accept of my +love, and to join the same to your mother. Please to give my +particular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt Isabella +Robson. Her daughter Sylvia knows what I have always felt, and shall +always feel, for her better than I can ever put into language, so I +send her no message; God bless and keep my child. You must all look +on me as one dead; as I am to you, and maybe shall soon be in +reality. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +'Your affectionate and obedient friend to command, +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +'PHILIP HEPBURN. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +'P.S.—Oh, Hester! for God's sake and mine, look +after ('my wife,' scratched out) Sylvia and my child. I think +Jeremiah Foster will help you to be a friend to them. This is the +last solemn request of P. H. She is but very young.' +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Hester read this letter again and again, till her heart caught the +echo of its hopelessness, and sank within her. She put it in her +pocket, and reflected upon it all the day long as she served in the +shop. +</P> + +<P> +The customers found her as gentle, but far more inattentive than +usual. She thought that in the evening she would go across the +bridge, and consult with the two good old brothers Foster. But +something occurred to put off the fulfilment of this plan. +</P> + +<P> +That same morning Sylvia had preceded her, with no one to consult, +because consultation would have required previous confidence, and +confidence would have necessitated such a confession about Kinraid +as it was most difficult for Sylvia to make. The poor young wife yet +felt that some step must be taken by her; and what it was to be she +could not imagine. +</P> + +<P> +She had no home to go to; for as Philip was gone away, she remained +where she was only on sufferance; she did not know what means of +livelihood she had; she was willing to work, nay, would be thankful +to take up her old life of country labour; but with her baby, what +could she do? +</P> + +<P> +In this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's kindly speech and +offer of assistance, made, it is true, half in joke, at the end of +her wedding visit, came into her mind; and she resolved to go and +ask for some of the friendly counsel and assistance then offered. +</P> + +<P> +It would be the first time of her going out since her mother's +funeral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. More even than +on that account did she shrink from going into the streets again. +She could not get over the impression that Kinraid must be lingering +near; and she distrusted herself so much that it was a positive +terror to think of meeting him again. She felt as though, if she but +caught a sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard his +well-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart would +stop, and she should die from very fright of what would come next. +Or rather so she felt, and so she thought before she took her baby +in her arms, as Nancy gave it to her after putting on its +out-of-door attire. +</P> + +<P> +With it in her arms she was protected, and the whole current of her +thoughts was changed. The infant was wailing and suffering with its +teething, and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing and +consoling her moaning child, that the dangerous quay-side and the +bridge were passed almost before she was aware; nor did she notice +the eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met who +recognized her even through the heavy veil which formed part of the +draping mourning provided for her by Hester and Coulson, in the +first unconscious days after her mother's death. +</P> + +<P> +Though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon Philip's +disappearance—warned possibly by Kinraid's story against hasty +decisions and judgments in such times as those of war and general +disturbance—yet every one agreed that no more pitiful fate could +have befallen Philip's wife. +</P> + +<P> +Marked out by her striking beauty as an object of admiring interest +even in those days when she sate in girlhood's smiling peace by her +mother at the Market Cross—her father had lost his life in a +popular cause, and ignominious as the manner of his death might be, +he was looked upon as a martyr to his zeal in avenging the wrongs of +his townsmen; Sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quiet +daily life was well known to them; and now her husband had been +carried off from her side just on the very day when she needed his +comfort most. +</P> + +<P> +For the general opinion was that Philip had been 'carried off'—in +seaport towns such occurrences were not uncommon in those +days—either by land-crimps or water-crimps. +</P> + +<P> +So Sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one sorely +afflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering walk +to Jeremiah Foster's. +</P> + +<P> +She had calculated her time so as to fall in with him at his dinner +hour, even though it obliged her to go to his own house rather than +to the bank where he and his brother spent all the business hours of +the day. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and the +weight of her baby, that all she could do when the door was opened +was to totter into the nearest seat, sit down, and begin to cry. +</P> + +<P> +In an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her heavy cloak, +offering to relieve her of her child, who clung to her all the more +firmly, and some one was pressing a glass of wine against her lips. +</P> + +<P> +'No, sir, I cannot take it! wine allays gives me th' headache; if I +might have just a drink o' water. Thank you, ma'am' (to the +respectable-looking old servant), 'I'm well enough now; and perhaps, +sir, I might speak a word with yo', for it's that I've come for.' +</P> + +<P> +'It's a pity, Sylvia Hepburn, as thee didst not come to me at the +bank, for it's been a long toil for thee all this way in the heat, +with thy child. But if there's aught I can do or say for thee, thou +hast but to name it, I am sure. Martha! wilt thou relieve her of her +child while she comes with me into the parlour?' +</P> + +<P> +But the wilful little Bella stoutly refused to go to any one, and +Sylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was. +</P> + +<P> +So the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her after-life +depended on this trivial fact. +</P> + +<P> +Once installed in the easy-chair, and face to face with Jeremiah, +Sylvia did not know how to begin. +</P> + +<P> +Jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover herself, by +pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle before +the child's eyes, almost within reach of the child's eager little +fingers. +</P> + +<P> +'She favours you a deal,' said he, at last. 'More than her father,' +he went on, purposely introducing Philip's name, so as to break the +ice; for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him about +something connected with her husband. +</P> + +<P> +Still Sylvia said nothing; she was choking down tears and shyness, +and unwillingness to take as confidant a man of whom she knew so +little, on such slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as the +little kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from that +house the last time that she entered it. +</P> + +<P> +'It's no use keeping yo', sir,' she broke out at last. 'It's about +Philip as I comed to speak. Do yo' know any thing whatsomever about +him? He niver had a chance o' saying anything, I know; but maybe +he's written?' +</P> + +<P> +'Not a line, my poor young woman!' said Jeremiah, hastily putting an +end to that vain idea. +</P> + +<P> +'Then he's either dead or gone away for iver,' she whispered. 'I mun +be both feyther and mother to my child.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! thee must not give it up,' replied he. 'Many a one is carried +off to the wars, or to the tenders o' men-o'-war; and then they turn +out to be unfit for service, and are sent home. Philip 'll come back +before the year's out; thee'll see that.' +</P> + +<P> +'No; he'll niver come back. And I'm not sure as I should iver wish +him t' come back, if I could but know what was gone wi' him. Yo' +see, sir, though I were sore set again' him, I shouldn't like harm +to happen him.' +</P> + +<P> +'There is something behind all this that I do not understand. Can +thee tell me what it is?' +</P> + +<P> +'I must, sir, if yo're to help me wi' your counsel; and I came up +here to ask for it.' +</P> + +<P> +Another long pause, during which Jeremiah made a feint of playing +with the child, who danced and shouted with tantalized impatience at +not being able to obtain possession of the seal, and at length +stretched out her soft round little arms to go to the owner of the +coveted possession. Surprise at this action roused Sylvia, and she +made some comment upon it. +</P> + +<P> +'I niver knew her t' go to any one afore. I hope she'll not be +troublesome to yo', sir?' +</P> + +<P> +The old man, who had often longed for a child of his own in days +gone by, was highly pleased by this mark of baby's confidence, and +almost forgot, in trying to strengthen her regard by all the winning +wiles in his power, how her poor mother was still lingering over +some painful story which she could not bring herself to tell. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm afeared of speaking wrong again' any one, sir. And mother were +so fond o' Philip; but he kept something from me as would ha' made +me a different woman, and some one else, happen, a different man. I +were troth-plighted wi' Kinraid the specksioneer, him as was cousin +to th' Corneys o' Moss Brow, and comed back lieutenant i' t' navy +last Tuesday three weeks, after ivery one had thought him dead and +gone these three years.' +</P> + +<P> +She paused. +</P> + +<P> +'Well?' said Jeremiah, with interest; although his attention +appeared to be divided between the mother's story and the eager +playfulness of the baby on his knee. +</P> + +<P> +'Philip knew he were alive; he'd seen him taken by t' press-gang, +and Charley had sent a message to me by Philip.' +</P> + +<P> +Her white face was reddening, her eyes flashing at this point of her +story. +</P> + +<P> +'And he niver told me a word on it, not when he saw me like to break +my heart in thinking as Kinraid were dead; he kept it a' to hissel'; +and watched me cry, and niver said a word to comfort me wi' t' +truth. It would ha' been a great comfort, sir, only t' have had his +message if I'd niver ha' been to see him again. But Philip niver let +on to any one, as I iver heared on, that he'd seen Charley that +morning as t' press-gang took him. Yo' know about feyther's death, +and how friendless mother and me was left? and so I married him; for +he were a good friend to us then, and I were dazed like wi' sorrow, +and could see naught else to do for mother. He were allays very +tender and good to her, for sure.' +</P> + +<P> +Again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one or two deep +sighs. +</P> + +<P> +'If I go on, sir, now, I mun ask yo' to promise as yo'll niver tell. +I do so need some one to tell me what I ought to do, and I were led +here, like, else I would ha' died wi' it all within my teeth. Yo'll +promise, sir?' +</P> + +<P> +Jeremiah Foster looked in her face, and seeing the wistful, eager +look, he was touched almost against his judgment into giving the +promise required; she went on. +</P> + +<P> +'Upon a Tuesday morning, three weeks ago, I think, tho' for t' +matter o' time it might ha' been three years, Kinraid come home; +come back for t' claim me as his wife, and I were wed to Philip! I +met him i' t' road at first; and I couldn't tell him theere. He +followed me into t' house—Philip's house, sir, behind t' shop—and +somehow I told him all, how I were a wedded wife to another. Then he +up and said I'd a false heart—me false, sir, as had eaten my daily +bread in bitterness, and had wept t' nights through, all for sorrow +and mourning for his death! Then he said as Philip knowed all t' +time he were alive and coming back for me; and I couldn't believe +it, and I called Philip, and he come, and a' that Charley had said +were true; and yet I were Philip's wife! So I took a mighty oath, +and I said as I'd niver hold Philip to be my lawful husband again, +nor iver forgive him for t' evil he'd wrought us, but hold him as a +stranger and one as had done me a heavy wrong.' +</P> + +<P> +She stopped speaking; her story seemed to her to end there. But her +listener said, after a pause, +</P> + +<P> +'It were a cruel wrong, I grant thee that; but thy oath were a sin, +and thy words were evil, my poor lass. What happened next?' +</P> + +<P> +'I don't justly remember,' she said, wearily. 'Kinraid went away, +and mother cried out; and I went to her. She were asleep, I thought, +so I lay down by her, to wish I were dead, and to think on what +would come on my child if I died; and Philip came in softly, and I +made as if I were asleep; and that's t' very last as I've iver seen +or heared of him.' +</P> + +<P> +Jeremiah Foster groaned as she ended her story. Then he pulled +himself up, and said, in a cheerful tone of voice, +</P> + +<P> +'He'll come back, Sylvia Hepburn. He'll think better of it: never +fear!' +</P> + +<P> +'I fear his coming back!' said she. 'That's what I'm feared on; I +would wish as I knew on his well-doing i' some other place; but him +and me can niver live together again.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay,' pleaded Jeremiah. 'Thee art sorry what thee said; thee were +sore put about, or thee wouldn't have said it.' +</P> + +<P> +He was trying to be a peace-maker, and to heal over conjugal +differences; but he did not go deep enough. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm not sorry,' said she, slowly. 'I were too deeply wronged to be +"put about"; that would go off wi' a night's sleep. It's only the +thought of mother (she's dead and happy, and knows nought of all +this, I trust) that comes between me and hating Philip. I'm not +sorry for what I said.' +</P> + +<P> +Jeremiah had never met with any one so frank and undisguised in +expressions of wrong feeling, and he scarcely knew what to say. +</P> + +<P> +He looked extremely grieved, and not a little shocked. So pretty and +delicate a young creature to use such strong relentless language! +</P> + +<P> +She seemed to read his thoughts, for she made answer to them. +</P> + +<P> +'I dare say you think I'm very wicked, sir, not to be sorry. Perhaps +I am. I can't think o' that for remembering how I've suffered; and +he knew how miserable I was, and might ha' cleared my misery away +wi' a word; and he held his peace, and now it's too late! I'm sick +o' men and their cruel, deceitful ways. I wish I were dead.' +</P> + +<P> +She was crying before she had ended this speech, and seeing her +tears, the child began to cry too, stretching out its little arms to +go back to its mother. The hard stony look on her face melted away +into the softest, tenderest love as she clasped the little one to +her, and tried to soothe its frightened sobs. +</P> + +<P> +A bright thought came into the old man's mind. +</P> + +<P> +He had been taking a complete dislike to her till her pretty way +with her baby showed him that she had a heart of flesh within her. +</P> + +<P> +'Poor little one!' said he, 'thy mother had need love thee, for +she's deprived thee of thy father's love. Thou'rt half-way to being +an orphan; yet I cannot call thee one of the fatherless to whom God +will be a father. Thou'rt a desolate babe, thou may'st well cry; +thine earthly parents have forsaken thee, and I know not if the Lord +will take thee up.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia looked up at him affrighted; holding her baby tighter to her, +she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't speak so, sir! it's cursing, sir! I haven't forsaken her! Oh, +sir! those are awful sayings.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thee hast sworn never to forgive thy husband, nor to live with him +again. Dost thee know that by the law of the land, he may claim his +child; and then thou wilt have to forsake it, or to be forsworn? +Poor little maiden!' continued he, once more luring the baby to him +with the temptation of the watch and chain. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia thought for a while before speaking. Then she said, +</P> + +<P> +'I cannot tell what ways to take. Whiles I think my head is crazed. +It were a cruel turn he did me!' +</P> + +<P> +'It was. I couldn't have thought him guilty of such baseness.' +</P> + +<P> +This acquiescence, which was perfectly honest on Jeremiah's part, +almost took Sylvia by surprise. Why might she not hate one who had +been both cruel and base in his treatment of her? And yet she +recoiled from the application of such hard terms by another to +Philip, by a cool-judging and indifferent person, as she esteemed +Jeremiah to be. From some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, she +began to defend him, or at least to palliate the harsh judgment +which she herself had been the first to pronounce. +</P> + +<P> +'He were so tender to mother; she were dearly fond on him; he niver +spared aught he could do for her, else I would niver ha' married +him.' +</P> + +<P> +'He was a good and kind-hearted lad from the time he was fifteen. +And I never found him out in any falsehood, no more did my brother.' +</P> + +<P> +'But it were all the same as a lie,' said Sylvia, swiftly changing +her ground, 'to leave me to think as Charley were dead, when he +knowed all t' time he were alive.' +</P> + +<P> +'It was. It was a self-seeking lie; putting thee to pain to get his +own ends. And the end of it has been that he is driven forth like +Cain.' +</P> + +<P> +'I niver told him to go, sir.' +</P> + +<P> +'But thy words sent him forth, Sylvia.' +</P> + +<P> +'I cannot unsay them, sir; and I believe as I should say them +again.' +</P> + +<P> +But she said this as one who rather hopes for a contradiction. +</P> + +<P> +All Jeremiah replied, however, was, 'Poor wee child!' in a pitiful +tone, addressed to the baby. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia's eyes filled with tears. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, sir, I'll do anything as iver yo' can tell me for her. That's +what I came for t' ask yo'. I know I mun not stay theere, and Philip +gone away; and I dunnot know what to do: and I'll do aught, only I +must keep her wi' me. Whativer can I do, sir?' +</P> + +<P> +Jeremiah thought it over for a minute or two. Then he replied, +</P> + +<P> +'I must have time to think. I must talk it over with brother John.' +</P> + +<P> +'But you've given me yo'r word, sir!' exclaimed she. +</P> + +<P> +'I have given thee my word never to tell any one of what has passed +between thee and thy husband, but I must take counsel with my +brother as to what is to be done with thee and thy child, now that +thy husband has left the shop.' +</P> + +<P> +This was said so gravely as almost to be a reproach, and he got up, +as a sign that the interview was ended. +</P> + +<P> +He gave the baby back to its mother; but not without a solemn +blessing, so solemn that, to Sylvia's superstitious and excited +mind, it undid the terrors of what she had esteemed to be a curse. +</P> + +<P> +'The Lord bless thee and keep thee! The Lord make His face to shine +upon thee!' +</P> + +<P> +All the way down the hill-side, Sylvia kept kissing the child, and +whispering to its unconscious ears,— +</P> + +<P> +'I'll love thee for both, my treasure, I will. I'll hap thee round +wi' my love, so as thou shall niver need a feyther's.' +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap37"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXVII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BEREAVEMENT +</H3> + +<P> +Hester had been prevented by her mother's indisposition from taking +Philip's letter to the Fosters, to hold a consultation with them +over its contents. +</P> + +<P> +Alice Rose was slowly failing, and the long days which she had to +spend alone told much upon her spirits, and consequently upon her +health. +</P> + +<P> +All this came out in the conversation which ensued after reading +Hepburn's letter in the little parlour at the bank on the day after +Sylvia had had her confidential interview with Jeremiah Foster. +</P> + +<P> +He was a true man of honour, and never so much as alluded to her +visit to him; but what she had then told him influenced him very +much in the formation of the project which he proposed to his +brother and Hester. +</P> + +<P> +He recommended her remaining where she was, living still in the +house behind the shop; for he thought within himself that she might +have exaggerated the effect of her words upon Philip; that, after +all, it might have been some cause totally disconnected with them, +which had blotted out her husband's place among the men of +Monkshaven; and that it would be so much easier for both to resume +their natural relations, both towards each other and towards the +world, if Sylvia remained where her husband had left her—in an +expectant attitude, so to speak. +</P> + +<P> +Jeremiah Foster questioned Hester straitly about her letter: whether +she had made known its contents to any one. No, not to any one. +Neither to her mother nor to William Coulson? No, to neither. +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him as she replied to his inquiries, and he looked at +her, each wondering if the other could be in the least aware that a +conjugal quarrel might be at the root of the dilemma in which they +were placed by Hepburn's disappearance. +</P> + +<P> +But neither Hester, who had witnessed the misunderstanding between +the husband and wife on the evening, before the morning on which +Philip went away, nor Jeremiah Foster, who had learnt from Sylvia +the true reason of her husband's disappearance, gave the slightest +reason to the other to think that they each supposed they had a clue +to the reason of Hepburn's sudden departure. +</P> + +<P> +What Jeremiah Foster, after a night's consideration, had to propose +was this; that Hester and her mother should come and occupy the +house in the market-place, conjointly with Sylvia and her child. +Hester's interest in the shop was by this time acknowledged. +Jeremiah had made over to her so much of his share in the business, +that she had a right to be considered as a kind of partner; and she +had long been the superintendent of that department of goods which +were exclusively devoted to women. So her daily presence was +requisite for more reasons than one. +</P> + +<P> +Yet her mother's health and spirits were such as to render it +unadvisable that the old woman should be too much left alone; and +Sylvia's devotion to her own mother seemed to point her out as the +very person who could be a gentle and tender companion to Alice Rose +during those hours when her own daughter would necessarily be +engaged in the shop. +</P> + +<P> +Many desirable objects seemed to be gained by this removal of Alice: +an occupation was provided for Sylvia, which would detain her in the +place where her husband had left her, and where (Jeremiah Foster +fairly expected in spite of his letter) he was likely to come back +to find her; and Alice Rose, the early love of one of the brothers, +the old friend of the other, would be well cared for, and under her +daughter's immediate supervision during the whole of the time that +she was occupied in the shop. +</P> + +<P> +Philip's share of the business, augmented by the money which he had +put in from the legacy of his old Cumberland uncle, would bring in +profits enough to support Sylvia and her child in ease and comfort +until that time, which they all anticipated, when he should return +from his mysterious wandering—mysterious, whether his going forth +had been voluntary or involuntary. +</P> + +<P> +Thus far was settled; and Jeremiah Foster went to tell Sylvia of the +plan. +</P> + +<P> +She was too much a child, too entirely unaccustomed to any +independence of action, to do anything but leave herself in his +hands. Her very confession, made to him the day before, when she +sought his counsel, seemed to place her at his disposal. Otherwise, +she had had notions of the possibility of a free country life once +more—how provided for and arranged she hardly knew; but Haytersbank +was to let, and Kester disengaged, and it had just seemed possible +that she might have to return to her early home, and to her old +life. She knew that it would take much money to stock the farm +again, and that her hands were tied from much useful activity by the +love and care she owed to her baby. But still, somehow, she hoped +and she fancied, till Jeremiah Foster's measured words and +carefully-arranged plan made her silently relinquish her green, +breezy vision. +</P> + +<P> +Hester, too, had her own private rebellion—hushed into submission +by her gentle piety. If Sylvia had been able to make Philip happy, +Hester could have felt lovingly and almost gratefully towards her; +but Sylvia had failed in this. +</P> + +<P> +Philip had been made unhappy, and was driven forth a wanderer into +the wide world—never to come back! And his last words to Hester, +the postscript of his letter, containing the very pith of it, was to +ask her to take charge and care of the wife whose want of love +towards him had uprooted him from the place where he was valued and +honoured. +</P> + +<P> +It cost Hester many a struggle and many a self-reproach before she +could make herself feel what she saw all along—that in everything +Philip treated her like a sister. But even a sister might well be +indignant if she saw her brother's love disregarded and slighted, +and his life embittered by the thoughtless conduct of a wife! Still +Hester fought against herself, and for Philip's sake she sought to +see the good in Sylvia, and she strove to love her as well as to +take care of her. +</P> + +<P> +With the baby, of course, the case was different. Without thought or +struggle, or reason, every one loved the little girl. Coulson and +his buxom wife, who were childless, were never weary of making much +of her. Hester's happiest hours were spent with that little child. +Jeremiah Foster almost looked upon her as his own from the day when +she honoured him by yielding to the temptation of the chain and +seal, and coming to his knee; not a customer to the shop but knew +the smiling child's sad history, and many a country-woman would save +a rosy-cheeked apple from out her store that autumn to bring it on +next market-day for 'Philip Hepburn's baby, as had lost its father, +bless it.' +</P> + +<P> +Even stern Alice Rose was graciously inclined towards the little +Bella; and though her idea of the number of the elect was growing +narrower and narrower every day, she would have been loth to exclude +the innocent little child, that stroked her wrinkled cheeks so +softly every night in return for her blessing, from the few that +should be saved. Nay, for the child's sake, she relented towards the +mother; and strove to have Sylvia rescued from the many castaways +with fervent prayer, or, as she phrased it, 'wrestling with the +Lord'. +</P> + +<P> +Alice had a sort of instinct that the little child, so tenderly +loved by, so fondly loving, the mother whose ewe-lamb she was, could +not be even in heaven without yearning for the creature she had +loved best on earth; and the old woman believed that this was the +principal reason for her prayers for Sylvia; but unconsciously to +herself, Alice Rose was touched by the filial attentions she +constantly received from the young mother, whom she believed to be +foredoomed to condemnation. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia rarely went to church or chapel, nor did she read her Bible; +for though she spoke little of her ignorance, and would fain, for +her child's sake, have remedied it now it was too late, she had lost +what little fluency of reading she had ever had, and could only make +out her words with much spelling and difficulty. So the taking her +Bible in hand would have been a mere form; though of this Alice Rose +knew nothing. +</P> + +<P> +No one knew much of what was passing in Sylvia; she did not know +herself. Sometimes in the nights she would waken, crying, with a +terrible sense of desolation; every one who loved her, or whom she +had loved, had vanished out of her life; every one but her child, +who lay in her arms, warm and soft. +</P> + +<P> +But then Jeremiah Foster's words came upon her; words that she had +taken for cursing at the time; and she would so gladly have had some +clue by which to penetrate the darkness of the unknown region from +whence both blessing and cursing came, and to know if she had indeed +done something which should cause her sin to be visited on that +soft, sweet, innocent darling. +</P> + +<P> +If any one would teach her to read! If any one would explain to her +the hard words she heard in church or chapel, so that she might find +out the meaning of sin and godliness!—words that had only passed +over the surface of her mind till now! For her child's sake she +should like to do the will of God, if she only knew what that was, +and how to be worked out in her daily life. +</P> + +<P> +But there was no one she dared confess her ignorance to and ask +information from. Jeremiah Foster had spoken as if her child, sweet +little merry Bella, with a loving word and a kiss for every one, was +to suffer heavily for the just and true words her wronged and +indignant mother had spoken. Alice always spoke as if there were no +hope for her; and blamed her, nevertheless, for not using the means +of grace that it was not in her power to avail herself of. +</P> + +<P> +And Hester, that Sylvia would fain have loved for her uniform +gentleness and patience with all around her, seemed so cold in her +unruffled and undemonstrative behaviour; and moreover, Sylvia felt +that Hester blamed her perpetual silence regarding Philip's absence +without knowing how bitter a cause Sylvia had for casting him off. +</P> + +<P> +The only person who seemed to have pity upon her was Kester; and his +pity was shown in looks rather than words; for when he came to see +her, which he did from time to time, by a kind of mutual tacit +consent, they spoke but little of former days. +</P> + +<P> +He was still lodging with his sister, widow Dobson, working at odd +jobs, some of which took him into the country for weeks at a time. +But on his returns to Monkshaven he was sure to come and see her and +the little Bella; indeed, when his employment was in the immediate +neighbourhood of the town, he never allowed a week to pass away +without a visit. +</P> + +<P> +There was not much conversation between him and Sylvia at such +times. They skimmed over the surface of the small events in which +both took an interest; only now and then a sudden glance, a checked +speech, told each that there were deeps not forgotten, although they +were never mentioned. +</P> + +<P> +Twice Sylvia—below her breath—had asked Kester, just as she was +holding the door open for his departure, if anything had ever been +heard of Kinraid since his one night's visit to Monkshaven: each +time (and there was an interval of some months between the +inquiries) the answer had been simply, no. +</P> + +<P> +To no one else would Sylvia ever have named his name. But indeed she +had not the chance, had she wished it ever so much, of asking any +questions about him from any one likely to know. The Corneys had +left Moss Brow at Martinmas, and gone many miles away towards +Horncastle. Bessy Corney, it is true was married and left behind in +the neighbourhood; but with her Sylvia had never been intimate; and +what girlish friendship there might have been between them had +cooled very much at the time of Kinraid's supposed death three years +before. +</P> + +<P> +One day before Christmas in this year, 1798, Sylvia was called into +the shop by Coulson, who, with his assistant, was busy undoing the +bales of winter goods supplied to them from the West Riding, and +other places. He was looking at a fine Irish poplin dress-piece when +Sylvia answered to his call. +</P> + +<P> +'Here! do you know this again?' asked he, in the cheerful tone of +one sure of giving pleasure. +</P> + +<P> +'No! have I iver seen it afore?' +</P> + +<P> +'Not this, but one for all t' world like it.' +</P> + +<P> +She did not rouse up to much interest, but looked at it as if trying +to recollect where she could have seen its like. +</P> + +<P> +'My missus had one on at th' party at John Foster's last March, and +yo' admired it a deal. And Philip, he thought o' nothing but how he +could get yo' just such another, and he set a vast o' folk agait for +to meet wi' its marrow; and what he did just the very day afore he +went away so mysterious was to write through Dawson Brothers, o' +Wakefield, to Dublin, and order that one should be woven for yo'. +Jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give him t' exact colour.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia did not say anything but that it was very pretty, in a low +voice, and then she quickly left the shop, much to Coulson's +displeasure. +</P> + +<P> +All the afternoon she was unusually quiet and depressed. +</P> + +<P> +Alice Rose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched her with keen +eyes. +</P> + +<P> +At length, after one of Sylvia's deep, unconscious sighs, the old +woman spoke: +</P> + +<P> +'It's religion as must comfort thee, child, as it's done many a one +afore thee.' +</P> + +<P> +'How?' said Sylvia, looking up, startled to find herself an object +of notice. +</P> + +<P> +'How?' (The answer was not quite so ready as the precept had been.) +'Read thy Bible, and thou wilt learn.' +</P> + +<P> +'But I cannot read,' said Sylvia, too desperate any longer to +conceal her ignorance. +</P> + +<P> +'Not read! and thee Philip's wife as was such a great scholar! Of a +surety the ways o' this life are crooked! There was our Hester, as +can read as well as any minister, and Philip passes over her to go +and choose a young lass as cannot read her Bible.' +</P> + +<P> +'Was Philip and Hester——' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia paused, for though a new curiosity had dawned upon her, she +did not know how to word her question. +</P> + +<P> +'Many a time and oft have I seen Hester take comfort in her Bible +when Philip was following after thee. She knew where to go for +consolation.' +</P> + +<P> +'I'd fain read,' said Sylvia, humbly, 'if anybody would learn me; +for perhaps it might do me good; I'm noane so happy.' +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes, as she looked up at Alice's stern countenance, were full +of tears. +</P> + +<P> +The old woman saw it, and was touched, although she did not +immediately show her sympathy. But she took her own time, and made +no reply. +</P> + +<P> +The next day, however, she bade Sylvia come to her, and then and +there, as if her pupil had been a little child, she began to teach +Sylvia to read the first chapter of Genesis; for all other reading +but the Scriptures was as vanity to her, and she would not +condescend to the weakness of other books. Sylvia was now, as ever, +slow at book-learning; but she was meek and desirous to be taught, +and her willingness in this respect pleased Alice, and drew her +singularly towards one who, from being a pupil, might become a +convert. +</P> + +<P> +All this time Sylvia never lost the curiosity that had been excited +by the few words Alice had let drop about Hester and Philip, and by +degrees she approached the subject again, and had the idea then +started confirmed by Alice, who had no scruple in using the past +experience of her own, of her daughter's, or of any one's life, as +an instrument to prove the vanity of setting the heart on anything +earthly. +</P> + +<P> +This knowledge, unsuspected before, sank deep into Sylvia's +thoughts, and gave her a strange interest in Hester—poor Hester, +whose life she had so crossed and blighted, even by the very +blighting of her own. She gave Hester her own former passionate +feelings for Kinraid, and wondered how she herself should have felt +towards any one who had come between her and him, and wiled his love +away. When she remembered Hester's unfailing sweetness and kindness +towards herself from the very first, she could better bear the +comparative coldness of her present behaviour. +</P> + +<P> +She tried, indeed, hard to win back the favour she had lost; but the +very means she took were blunders, and only made it seem to her as +if she could never again do right in Hester's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +For instance, she begged her to accept and wear the pretty poplin +gown which had been Philip's especial choice; feeling within herself +as if she should never wish to put it on, and as if the best thing +she could do with it was to offer it to Hester. But Hester rejected +the proffered gift with as much hardness of manner as she was +capable of assuming; and Sylvia had to carry it upstairs and lay it +by for the little daughter, who, Hester said, might perhaps learn to +value things that her father had given especial thought to. +</P> + +<P> +Yet Sylvia went on trying to win Hester to like her once more; it +was one of her great labours, and learning to read from Hester's +mother was another. +</P> + +<P> +Alice, indeed, in her solemn way, was becoming quite fond of Sylvia; +if she could not read or write, she had a deftness and gentleness of +motion, a capacity for the household matters which fell into her +department, that had a great effect on the old woman, and for her +dear mother's sake Sylvia had a stock of patient love ready in her +heart for all the aged and infirm that fell in her way. She never +thought of seeking them out, as she knew that Hester did; but then +she looked up to Hester as some one very remarkable for her +goodness. If only she could have liked her! +</P> + +<P> +Hester tried to do all she could for Sylvia; Philip had told her to +take care of his wife and child; but she had the conviction that +Sylvia had so materially failed in her duties as to have made her +husband an exile from his home—a penniless wanderer, wifeless and +childless, in some strange country, whose very aspect was +friendless, while the cause of all lived on in the comfortable home +where he had placed her, wanting for nothing—an object of interest +and regard to many friends—with a lovely little child to give her +joy for the present, and hope for the future; while he, the poor +outcast, might even lie dead by the wayside. How could Hester love +Sylvia? +</P> + +<P> +Yet they were frequent companions that ensuing spring. Hester was +not well; and the doctors said that the constant occupation in the +shop was too much for her, and that she must, for a time at least, +take daily walks into the country. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia used to beg to accompany her; she and the little girl often +went with Hester up the valley of the river to some of the nestling +farms that were hidden in the more sheltered nooks—for Hester was +bidden to drink milk warm from the cow; and to go into the familiar +haunts about a farm was one of the few things in which Sylvia seemed +to take much pleasure. She would let little Bella toddle about while +Hester sate and rested: and she herself would beg to milk the cow +destined to give the invalid her draught. +</P> + +<P> +One May evening the three had been out on some such expedition; the +country side still looked gray and bare, though the leaves were +showing on the willow and blackthorn and sloe, and by the tinkling +runnels, making hidden music along the copse side, the pale delicate +primrose buds were showing amid their fresh, green, crinkled leaves. +The larks had been singing all the afternoon, but were now dropping +down into their nests in the pasture fields; the air had just the +sharpness in it which goes along with a cloudless evening sky at +that time of the year. +</P> + +<P> +But Hester walked homewards slowly and languidly, speaking no word. +Sylvia noticed this at first without venturing to speak, for Hester +was one who disliked having her ailments noticed. But after a while +Hester stood still in a sort of weary dreamy abstraction; and Sylvia +said to her, +</P> + +<P> +'I'm afeared yo're sadly tired. Maybe we've been too far.' +</P> + +<P> +Hester almost started. +</P> + +<P> +'No!' said she, 'it's only my headache which is worse to-night. It +has been bad all day; but since I came out it has felt just as if +there were great guns booming, till I could almost pray 'em to be +quiet. I am so weary o' th' sound.' +</P> + +<P> +She stepped out quickly towards home after she had said this, as if +she wished for neither pity nor comment on what she had said. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap38"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXVIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE RECOGNITION +</H3> + +<P> +Far away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, great guns were +booming on that 7th of May, 1799. +</P> + +<P> +The Mediterranean came up with a long roar on a beach glittering +white with snowy sand, and the fragments of innumerable sea-shells, +delicate and shining as porcelain. Looking at that shore from the +sea, a long ridge of upland ground, beginning from an inland depth, +stretched far away into the ocean on the right, till it ended in a +great mountainous bluff, crowned with the white buildings of a +convent sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its base. +</P> + +<P> +In the clear eastern air, the different characters of the foliage +that clothed the sides of that sea-washed mountain might be +discerned from a long distance by the naked eye; the silver gray of +the olive-trees near its summit; the heavy green and bossy forms of +the sycamores lower down; broken here and there by a solitary +terebinth or ilex tree, of a deeper green and a wider spread; till +the eye fell below on the maritime plain, edged with the white +seaboard and the sandy hillocks; with here and there feathery +palm-trees, either isolated or in groups—motionless and distinct +against the hot purple air. +</P> + +<P> +Look again; a little to the left on the sea-shore there are the +white walls of a fortified town, glittering in sunlight, or black in +shadow. +</P> + +<P> +The fortifications themselves run out into the sea, forming a port +and a haven against the wild Levantine storms; and a lighthouse +rises out of the waves to guide mariners into safety. +</P> + +<P> +Beyond this walled city, and far away to the left still, there is +the same wide plain shut in by the distant rising ground, till the +upland circuit comes closing in to the north, and the great white +rocks meet the deep tideless ocean with its intensity of blue +colour. +</P> + +<P> +Above, the sky is literally purple with heat; and the pitiless light +smites the gazer's weary eye as it comes back from the white shore. +Nor does the plain country in that land offer the refuge and rest of +our own soft green. The limestone rock underlies the vegetation, and +gives a glittering, ashen hue to all the bare patches, and even to +the cultivated parts which are burnt up early in the year. In +spring-time alone does the country look rich and fruitful; then the +corn-fields of the plain show their capability of bearing, 'some +fifty, some an hundred fold'; down by the brook Kishon, flowing not +far from the base of the mountainous promontory to the south, there +grow the broad green fig-trees, cool and fresh to look upon; the +orchards are full of glossy-leaved cherry-trees; the tall amaryllis +puts forth crimson and yellow glories in the fields, rivalling the +pomp of King Solomon; the daisies and the hyacinths spread their +myriad flowers; the anemones, scarlet as blood, run hither and +thither over the ground like dazzling flames of fire. +</P> + +<P> +A spicy odour lingers in the heated air; it comes from the multitude +of aromatic flowers that blossom in the early spring. Later on they +will have withered and faded, and the corn will have been gathered, +and the deep green of the eastern foliage will have assumed a kind +of gray-bleached tint. +</P> + +<P> +Even now in May, the hot sparkle of the everlasting sea, the +terribly clear outline of all objects, whether near or distant, the +fierce sun right overhead, the dazzling air around, were +inexpressibly wearying to the English eyes that kept their skilled +watch, day and night, on the strongly-fortified coast-town that lay +out a little to the northward of where the British ships were +anchored. +</P> + +<P> +They had kept up a flanking fire for many days in aid of those +besieged in St Jean d'Acre; and at intervals had listened, +impatient, to the sound of the heavy siege guns, or the sharper +rattle of the French musketry. +</P> + +<P> +In the morning, on the 7th of May, a man at the masthead of the +<I>Tigre</I> sang out that he saw ships in the offing; and in reply to +the signal that was hastily run up, he saw the distant vessels hoist +friendly flags. That May morning was a busy time. The besieged Turks +took heart of grace; the French outside, under the command of their +great general, made hasty preparations for a more vigorous assault +than all many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone before (for +the siege was now at its fifty-first day), in hopes of carrying the +town by storm before the reinforcement coming by sea could arrive; +and Sir Sidney Smith, aware of Buonaparte's desperate intention, +ordered all the men, both sailors and marines, that could be spared +from the necessity of keeping up a continual flanking fire from the +ships upon the French, to land, and assist the Turks and the British +forces already there in the defence of the old historic city. +</P> + +<P> +Lieutenant Kinraid, who had shared his captain's daring adventure +off the coast of France three years before, who had been a prisoner +with him and Westley Wright, in the Temple at Paris, and had escaped +with them, and, through Sir Sidney's earnest recommendation, been +promoted from being a warrant officer to the rank of lieutenant, +received on this day the honour from his admiral of being appointed +to an especial post of danger. His heart was like a war-horse, and +said, Ha, ha! as the boat bounded over the waves that were to land +him under the ancient machicolated walls where the Crusaders made +their last stand in the Holy Land. Not that Kinraid knew or cared +one jot about those gallant knights of old: all he knew was, that +the French, under Boney, were trying to take the town from the +Turks, and that his admiral said they must not, and so they should +not. +</P> + +<P> +He and his men landed on that sandy shore, and entered the town by +the water-port gate; he was singing to himself his own country +song,— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Weel may the keel row, the keel row, &C. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +and his men, with sailors' aptitude for music, caught up the air, +and joined in the burden with inarticulate sounds. +</P> + +<P> +So, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow streets of Acre, +hemmed in on either side by the white walls of Turkish houses, with +small grated openings high up, above all chance of peeping +intrusion. +</P> + +<P> +Here and there they met an ample-robed and turbaned Turk going along +with as much haste as his stately self-possession would allow. But +the majority of the male inhabitants were gathered together to +defend the breach, where the French guns thundered out far above the +heads of the sailors. +</P> + +<P> +They went along none the less merrily for the sound to Djezzar +Pacha's garden, where the old Turk sate on his carpet, beneath the +shade of a great terebinth tree, listening to the interpreter, who +made known to him the meaning of the eager speeches of Sir Sidney +Smith and the colonel of the marines. +</P> + +<P> +As soon as the admiral saw the gallant sailors of H.M.S. <I>Tigre</I>, he +interrupted the council of war without much ceremony, and going to +Kinraid, he despatched them, as before arranged, to the North +Ravelin, showing them the way with rapid, clear directions. +</P> + +<P> +Out of respect to him, they had kept silent while in the strange, +desolate garden; but once more in the streets, the old Newcastle +song rose up again till the men were, perforce, silenced by the +haste with which they went to the post of danger. +</P> + +<P> +It was three o'clock in the afternoon. For many a day these very men +had been swearing at the terrific heat at this hour—even when at +sea, fanned by the soft breeze; but now, in the midst of hot smoke, +with former carnage tainting the air, and with the rush and whizz of +death perpetually whistling in their ears, they were uncomplaining +and light-hearted. Many an old joke, and some new ones, came brave +and hearty, on their cheerful voices, even though the speaker was +veiled from sight in great clouds of smoke, cloven only by the +bright flames of death. +</P> + +<P> +A sudden message came; as many of the crew of the <I>Tigre</I> as were +under Lieutenant Kinraid's command were to go down to the Mole, to +assist the new reinforcements (seen by the sailor from the masthead +at day-dawn), under command of Hassan Bey, to land at the Mole, +where Sir Sidney then was. +</P> + +<P> +Off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as before, though +two of their number lay silent for ever at the North +Ravelin—silenced in that one little half-hour. And one went along +with the rest, swearing lustily at his ill-luck in having his right +arm broken, but ready to do good business with his left. +</P> + +<P> +They helped the Turkish troops to land more with good-will than +tenderness; and then, led by Sir Sidney, they went under the shelter +of English guns to the fatal breach, so often assailed, so gallantly +defended, but never so fiercely contested as on this burning +afternoon. The ruins of the massive wall that here had been broken +down by the French, were used by them as stepping stones to get on a +level with the besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones which the +latter hurled down; nay, even the dead bodies of the morning's +comrades were made into ghastly stairs. +</P> + +<P> +When Djezzar Pacha heard that the British sailors were defending the +breach, headed by Sir Sidney Smith, he left his station in the +palace garden, gathered up his robes in haste, and hurried to the +breach; where, with his own hands, and with right hearty good-will, +he pulled the sailors down from the post of danger, saying that if +he lost his English friends he lost all! +</P> + +<P> +But little recked the crew of the <I>Tigre</I> of the one old man—Pacha +or otherwise—who tried to hold them back from the fight; they were +up and at the French assailants clambering over the breach in an +instant; and so they went on, as if it were some game at play +instead of a deadly combat, until Kinraid and his men were called +off by Sir Sidney, as the reinforcement of Turkish troops under +Hassan Bey were now sufficient for the defence of that old breach in +the walls, which was no longer the principal object of the French +attack; for the besiegers had made a new and more formidable breach +by their incessant fire, knocking down whole streets of the city +walls. +</P> + +<P> +'Fight your best Kinraid!' said Sir Sidney; 'for there's Boney on +yonder hill looking at you.' +</P> + +<P> +And sure enough, on a rising ground, called Richard Coeur de Lion's +Mount, there was a half-circle of French generals, on horseback, all +deferentially attending to the motions, and apparently to the words, +of a little man in their centre; at whose bidding the aide-de-camp +galloped swift with messages to the more distant French camp. +</P> + +<P> +The two ravelins which Kinraid and his men had to occupy, for the +purpose of sending a flanking fire upon the enemy, were not ten +yards from that enemy's van. +</P> + +<P> +But at length there was a sudden rush of the French to that part of +the wall where they imagined they could enter unopposed. +</P> + +<P> +Surprised at this movement, Kinraid ventured out of the shelter of +the ravelin to ascertain the cause; he, safe and untouched during +that long afternoon of carnage, fell now, under a stray musket-shot, +and lay helpless and exposed upon the ground undiscerned by his men, +who were recalled to help in the hot reception which had been +planned for the French; who, descending the city walls into the +Pacha's garden, were attacked with sabre and dagger, and lay +headless corpses under the flowering rose-bushes, and by the +fountain side. +</P> + +<P> +Kinraid lay beyond the ravelins, many yards outside the city walls. +</P> + +<P> +He was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken his leg. Dead +bodies of Frenchmen lay strewn around him; no Englishman had +ventured out so far. +</P> + +<P> +All the wounded men that he could see were French; and many of +these, furious with pain, gnashed their teeth at him, and cursed him +aloud, till he thought that his best course was to assume the +semblance of death; for some among these men were still capable of +dragging themselves up to him, and by concentrating all their +failing energies into one blow, put him to a speedy end. +</P> + +<P> +The outlying pickets of the French army were within easy rifle shot; +and his uniform, although less conspicuous in colour than that of +the marines, by whose sides he had been fighting, would make him a +sure mark if he so much as moved his arm. Yet how he longed to turn, +if ever so slightly, so that the cruel slanting sun might not beat +full into his aching eyes. Fever, too, was coming upon him; the pain +in his leg was every moment growing more severe; the terrible thirst +of the wounded, added to the heat and fatigue of the day, made his +lips and tongue feel baked and dry, and his whole throat seemed +parched and wooden. Thoughts of other days, of cool Greenland seas, +where ice abounded, of grassy English homes, began to make the past +more real than the present. +</P> + +<P> +With a great effort he brought his wandering senses back; he knew +where he was now, and could weigh the chances of his life, which +were but small; the unwonted tears came to his eyes as he thought of +the newly-made wife in her English home, who might never know how he +died thinking of her. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly he saw a party of English marines advance, under shelter of +the ravelin, to pick up the wounded, and bear them within the walls +for surgical help. They were so near he could see their faces, could +hear them speak; yet he durst not make any sign to them when he lay +within range of the French picket's fire. +</P> + +<P> +For one moment he could not resist raising his head, to give himself +a chance for life; before the unclean creatures that infest a camp +came round in the darkness of the night to strip and insult the dead +bodies, and to put to death such as had yet the breath of life +within them. But the setting sun came full into his face, and he saw +nothing of what he longed to see. +</P> + +<P> +He fell back in despair; he lay there to die. +</P> + +<P> +That strong clear sunbeam had wrought his salvation. +</P> + +<P> +He had been recognized as men are recognized when they stand in the +red glare of a house on fire; the same despair of help, of hopeless +farewell to life, stamped on their faces in blood-red light. +</P> + +<P> +One man left his fellows, and came running forwards, forwards in +among the enemy's wounded, within range of their guns; he bent down +over Kinraid; he seemed to understand without a word; he lifted him +up, carrying him like a child; and with the vehement energy that is +more from the force of will than the strength of body, he bore him +back to within the shelter of the ravelin—not without many shots +being aimed at them, one of which hit Kinraid in the fleshy part of +his arm. +</P> + +<P> +Kinraid was racked with agony from his dangling broken leg, and his +very life seemed leaving him; yet he remembered afterwards how the +marine recalled his fellows, and how, in the pause before they +returned, his face became like one formerly known to the sick senses +of Kinraid; yet it was too like a dream, too utterly improbable to +be real. +</P> + +<P> +Yet the few words this man said, as he stood breathless and alone by +the fainting Kinraid, fitted in well with the belief conjured up by +his personal appearance. He panted out,— +</P> + +<P> +'I niver thought you'd ha' kept true to her!' +</P> + +<P> +And then the others came up; and while they were making a sling of +their belts, Kinraid fainted utterly away, and the next time that he +was fully conscious, he was lying in his berth in the <I>Tigre</I>, with +the ship surgeon setting his leg. After that he was too feverish for +several days to collect his senses. When he could first remember, +and form a judgment upon his recollections, he called the man +especially charged to attend upon him, and bade him go and make +inquiry in every possible manner for a marine named Philip Hepburn, +and, when he was found, to entreat him to come and see Kinraid. +</P> + +<P> +The sailor was away the greater part of the day, and returned +unsuccessful in his search; he had been from ship to ship, hither +and thither; he had questioned all the marines he had met with, no +one knew anything of any Philip Hepburn. +</P> + +<P> +Kinraid passed a miserably feverish night, and when the doctor +exclaimed the next morning at his retrogression, he told him, with +some irritation, of the ill-success of his servant; he accused the +man of stupidity, and wished fervently that he were able to go +himself. +</P> + +<P> +Partly to soothe him, the doctor promised that he would undertake +the search for Hepburn, and he engaged faithfully to follow all +Kinraid's eager directions; not to be satisfied with men's careless +words, but to look over muster-rolls and ships' books. +</P> + +<P> +He, too, brought the same answer, however unwillingly given. +</P> + +<P> +He had set out upon the search so confident of success, that he felt +doubly discomfited by failure. However, he had persuaded himself +that the lieutenant had been partially delirious from the effects of +his wound, and the power of the sun shining down just where he lay. +There had, indeed, been slight symptoms of Kinraid's having received +a sun-stroke; and the doctor dwelt largely on these in his endeavour +to persuade his patient that it was his imagination which had endued +a stranger with the lineaments of some former friend. +</P> + +<P> +Kinraid threw his arms out of bed with impatience at all this +plausible talk, which was even more irritating than the fact that +Hepburn was still undiscovered. +</P> + +<P> +'The man was no friend of mine; I was like to have killed him when +last I saw him. He was a shopkeeper in a country town in England. I +had seen little enough of him; but enough to make me able to swear +to him anywhere, even in a marine's uniform, and in this sweltering +country.' +</P> + +<P> +'Faces once seen, especially in excitement, are apt to return upon +the memory in cases of fever,' quoth the doctor, sententiously. +</P> + +<P> +The attendant sailor, reinstalled to some complacency by the failure +of another in the search in which he himself had been unsuccessful, +now put in his explanation. +</P> + +<P> +'Maybe it was a spirit. It's not th' first time as I've heared of a +spirit coming upon earth to save a man's life i' time o' need. My +father had an uncle, a west-country grazier. He was a-coming over +Dartmoor in Devonshire one moonlight night with a power o' money as +he'd got for his sheep at t' fair. It were stowed i' leather bags +under th' seat o' th' gig. It were a rough kind o' road, both as a +road and in character, for there'd been many robberies there of +late, and th' great rocks stood convenient for hiding-places. All at +once father's uncle feels as if some one were sitting beside him on +th' empty seat; and he turns his head and looks, and there he sees +his brother sitting—his brother as had been dead twelve year and +more. So he turns his head back again, eyes right, and never say a +word, but wonders what it all means. All of a sudden two fellows +come out upo' th' white road from some black shadow, and they +looked, and they let th' gig go past, father's uncle driving hard, +I'll warrant him. But for all that he heard one say to t' other, +"By——, there's <I>two</I> on 'em!" Straight on he drove faster than +ever, till he saw th' far lights of some town or other. I forget its +name, though I've heared it many a time; and then he drew a long +breath, and turned his head to look at his brother, and ask him how +he'd managed to come out of his grave i' Barum churchyard, and th' +seat was as empty as it had been when he set out; and then he knew +that it were a spirit come to help him against th' men who thought +to rob him, and would likely enough ha' murdered him.' +</P> + +<P> +Kinraid had kept quiet through this story. But when the sailor began +to draw the moral, and to say, 'And I think I may make bold to say, +sir, as th' marine who carried you out o' th' Frenchy's gun-shot was +just a spirit come to help you,' he exclaimed impatiently, swearing +a great oath as he did so, 'It was no spirit, I tell you; and I was +in my full senses. It was a man named Philip Hepburn. He said words +to me, or over me, as none but himself would have said. Yet we hated +each other like poison; and I can't make out why he should be there +and putting himself in danger to save me. But so it was; and as you +can't find him, let me hear no more of your nonsense. It was him, +and not my fancy, doctor. It was flesh and blood, and not a spirit, +Jack. So get along with you, and leave me quiet.' +</P> + +<P> +All this time Stephen Freeman lay friendless, sick, and shattered, +on board the <I>Thesus</I>. +</P> + +<P> +He had been about his duty close to some shells that were placed on +her deck; a gay young midshipman was thoughtlessly striving to get +the fusee out of one of these by a mallet and spike-nail that lay +close at hand; and a fearful explosion ensued, in which the poor +marine, cleaning his bayonet near, was shockingly burnt and +disfigured, the very skin of all the lower part of his face being +utterly destroyed by gunpowder. They said it was a mercy that his +eyes were spared; but he could hardly feel anything to be a mercy, +as he lay tossing in agony, burnt by the explosion, wounded by +splinters, and feeling that he was disabled for life, if life itself +were preserved. Of all that suffered by that fearful accident (and +they were many) none was so forsaken, so hopeless, so desolate, as +the Philip Hepburn about whom such anxious inquiries were being made +at that very time. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap39"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXXIX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CONFIDENCES +</H3> + +<P> +It was a little later on in that same summer that Mrs. Brunton came +to visit her sister Bessy. +</P> + +<P> +Bessy was married to a tolerably well-to-do farmer who lived at an +almost equal distance between Monkshaven and Hartswell; but from old +habit and convenience the latter was regarded as the Dawsons' +market-town; so Bessy seldom or never saw her old friends in +Monkshaven. +</P> + +<P> +But Mrs. Brunton was far too flourishing a person not to speak out +her wishes, and have her own way. She had no notion, she said, of +coming such a long journey only to see Bessy and her husband, and +not to have a sight of her former acquaintances at Monkshaven. She +might have added, that her new bonnet and cloak would be as good as +lost if it was not displayed among those who, knowing her as Molly +Corney, and being less fortunate in matrimony than she was, would +look upon it with wondering admiration, if not with envy. +</P> + +<P> +So one day farmer Dawson's market-cart deposited Mrs. Brunton in all +her bravery at the shop in the market-place, over which Hepburn and +Coulson's names still flourished in joint partnership. +</P> + +<P> +After a few words of brisk recognition to Coulson and Hester, Mrs +Brunton passed on into the parlour and greeted Sylvia with +boisterous heartiness. +</P> + +<P> +It was now four years and more since the friends had met; and each +secretly wondered how they had ever come to be friends. Sylvia had a +country, raw, spiritless look to Mrs. Brunton's eye; Molly was loud +and talkative, and altogether distasteful to Sylvia, trained in +daily companionship with Hester to appreciate soft slow speech, and +grave thoughtful ways. +</P> + +<P> +However, they kept up the forms of their old friendship, though +their hearts had drifted far apart. They sat hand in hand while each +looked at the other with eyes inquisitive as to the changes which +time had made. Molly was the first to speak. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, to be sure! how thin and pale yo've grown, Sylvia! Matrimony +hasn't agreed wi' yo' as well as it's done wi me. Brunton is allays +saying (yo' know what a man he is for his joke) that if he'd ha' +known how many yards o' silk I should ha' ta'en for a gown, he'd ha' +thought twice afore he'd ha' married me. Why, I've gained a matter +o' thirty pound o' flesh sin' I were married!' +</P> + +<P> +'Yo' do look brave and hearty!' said Sylvia, putting her sense of +her companion's capacious size and high colour into the prettiest +words she could. +</P> + +<P> +'Eh! Sylvia! but I know what it is,' said Molly, shaking her head. +'It's just because o' that husband o' thine as has gone and left +thee; thou's pining after him, and he's not worth it. Brunton said, +when he heared on it—I mind he was smoking at t' time, and he took +his pipe out of his mouth, and shook out t' ashes as grave as any +judge—"The man," says he, "as can desert a wife like Sylvia Robson +as was, deserves hanging!" That's what he says! Eh! Sylvia, but +speakin' o' hanging I was so grieved for yo' when I heared of yo'r +poor feyther! Such an end for a decent man to come to! Many a one +come an' called on me o' purpose to hear all I could tell 'em about +him!' +</P> + +<P> +'Please don't speak on it!' said Sylvia, trembling all over. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, poor creature, I wunnot. It is hard on thee, I grant. But to +give t' devil his due, it were good i' Hepburn to marry thee, and so +soon after there was a' that talk about thy feyther. Many a man +would ha' drawn back, choose howiver far they'd gone. I'm noane so +sure about Charley Kinraid. Eh, Sylvia! only think on his being +alive after all. I doubt if our Bessy would ha' wed Frank Dawson if +she'd known as he wasn't drowned. But it's as well she did, for +Dawson's a man o' property, and has getten twelve cows in his +cow-house, beside three right down good horses; and Kinraid were +allays a fellow wi' two strings to his bow. I've allays said and do +maintain, that he went on pretty strong wi' yo', Sylvie; and I will +say I think he cared more for yo' than for our Bessy, though it were +only yesterday at e'en she were standing out that he liked her +better than yo'. Yo'll ha' heared on his grand marriage?' +</P> + +<P> +'No!' said Sylvia, with eager painful curiosity. +</P> + +<P> +'No! It was in all t' papers! I wonder as yo' didn't see it. Wait a +minute! I cut it out o' t' <I>Gentleman's Magazine</I>, as Brunton bought +o' purpose, and put it i' my pocket-book when I were a-coming here: +I know I've got it somewheere.' +</P> + +<P> +She took out her smart crimson pocket-book, and rummaged in the +pocket until she produced a little crumpled bit of printed paper, +from which she read aloud, +</P> + +<P> +'On January the third, at St Mary Redcliffe, Bristol, Charles +Kinraid, Esq., lieutenant Royal Navy, to Miss Clarinda Jackson, with +a fortune of 10,000<I>l</I>.' +</P> + +<P> +'Theere!' said she, triumphantly, 'it's something as Brunton says, +to be cousin to that.' +</P> + +<P> +'Would yo' let me see it?' said Sylvia, timidly. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Brunton graciously consented; and Sylvia brought her newly +acquired reading-knowledge, hitherto principally exercised on the +Old Testament, to bear on these words. +</P> + +<P> +There was nothing wonderful in them, nothing that she might not have +expected; and yet the surprise turned her giddy for a moment or two. +She never thought of seeing him again, never. But to think of his +caring for another woman as much as he had done for her, nay, +perhaps more! +</P> + +<P> +The idea was irresistibly forced upon her that Philip would not have +acted so; it would have taken long years before he could have been +induced to put another on the throne she had once occupied. For the +first time in her life she seemed to recognize the real nature of +Philip's love. +</P> + +<P> +But she said nothing but 'Thank yo',' when she gave the scrap of +paper back to Molly Brunton. And the latter continued giving her +information about Kinraid's marriage. +</P> + +<P> +'He were down in t' west, Plymouth or somewheere, when he met wi' +her. She's no feyther; he'd been in t' sugar-baking business; but +from what Kinraid wrote to old Turner, th' uncle as brought him up +at Cullercoats, she's had t' best of edications: can play on t' +instrument and dance t' shawl dance; and Kinraid had all her money +settled on her, though she said she'd rayther give it all to him, +which I must say, being his cousin, was very pretty on her. He's +left her now, having to go off in t' <I>Tigre</I>, as is his ship, to t' +Mediterranean seas; and she's written to offer to come and see old +Turner, and make friends with his relations, and Brunton is going to +gi'e me a crimson satin as soon as we know for certain when she's +coming, for we're sure to be asked out to Cullercoats.' +</P> + +<P> +'I wonder if she's very pretty?' asked Sylvia, faintly, in the first +pause in this torrent of talk. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! she's a perfect beauty, as I understand. There was a traveller +as come to our shop as had been at York, and knew some of her +cousins theere that were in t' grocery line—her mother was a York +lady—and they said she was just a picture of a woman, and iver so +many gentlemen had been wantin' to marry her, but she just waited +for Charley Kinraid, yo' see!' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, I hope they'll be happy; I'm sure I do!' said Sylvia. +</P> + +<P> +'That's just luck. Some folks is happy i' marriage, and some isn't. +It's just luck, and there's no forecasting it. Men is such +unaccountable animals, there's no prophesyin' upon 'em. Who'd ha' +thought of yo'r husband, him as was so slow and sure—steady Philip, +as we lasses used to ca' him—makin' a moonlight flittin', and +leavin' yo' to be a widow bewitched?' +</P> + +<P> +'He didn't go at night,' said Sylvia, taking the words 'moonlight +flitting' in their literal sense. +</P> + +<P> +'No! Well, I only said "moonlight flittin'" just because it come +uppermost and I knowed no better. Tell me all about it, Sylvie, for +I can't mak' it out from what Bessy says. Had he and yo' had +words?—but in course yo' had.' +</P> + +<P> +At this moment Hester came into the room; and Sylvia joyfully +availed herself of the pretext for breaking off the conversation +that had reached this painful and awkward point. She detained Hester +in the room for fear lest Mrs. Brunton should repeat her inquiry as +to how it all happened that Philip had gone away; but the presence +of a third person seemed as though it would be but little restraint +upon the inquisitive Molly, who repeatedly bore down upon the same +questions till she nearly drove Sylvia distracted, between her +astonishment at the news of Kinraid's marriage; her wish to be alone +and quiet, so as to realize the full meaning of that piece of +intelligence; her desire to retain Hester in the conversation; her +efforts to prevent Molly's recurrence to the circumstances of +Philip's disappearance, and the longing—more vehement every +minute—for her visitor to go away and leave her in peace. She +became so disturbed with all these thoughts and feelings that she +hardly knew what she was saying, and assented or dissented to +speeches without there being either any reason or truth in her +words. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Brunton had arranged to remain with Sylvia while the horse +rested, and had no compunction about the length of her visit. She +expected to be asked to tea, as Sylvia found out at last, and this +she felt would be the worst of all, as Alice Rose was not one to +tolerate the coarse, careless talk of such a woman as Mrs. Brunton +without uplifting her voice in many a testimony against it. Sylvia +sate holding Hester's gown tight in order to prevent her leaving the +room, and trying to arrange her little plans so that too much +discordance should not arise to the surface. Just then the door +opened, and little Bella came in from the kitchen in all the pretty, +sturdy dignity of two years old, Alice following her with careful +steps, and protecting, outstretched arms, a slow smile softening the +sternness of her grave face; for the child was the unconscious +darling of the household, and all eyes softened into love as they +looked on her. She made straight for her mother with something +grasped in her little dimpled fist; but half-way across the room she +seemed to have become suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger, +and she stopped short, fixing her serious eyes full on Mrs. Brunton, +as if to take in her appearance, nay, as if to penetrate down into +her very real self, and then, stretching out her disengaged hand, +the baby spoke out the words that had been hovering about her +mother's lips for an hour past. +</P> + +<P> +'Do away!' said Bella, decisively. +</P> + +<P> +'What a perfect love!' said Mrs. Brunton, half in real admiration, +half in patronage. As she spoke, she got up and went towards the +child, as if to take her up. +</P> + +<P> +'Do away! do away!' cried Bella, in shrill affright at this +movement. +</P> + +<P> +'Dunnot,' said Sylvia; 'she's shy; she doesn't know strangers.' +</P> + +<P> +But Mrs. Brunton had grasped the struggling, kicking child by this +time, and her reward for this was a vehement little slap in the +face. +</P> + +<P> +'Yo' naughty little spoilt thing!' said she, setting Bella down in a +hurry. 'Yo' deserve a good whipping, yo' do, and if yo' were mine +yo' should have it.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia had no need to stand up for the baby who had run to her arms, +and was soothing herself with sobbing on her mother's breast; for +Alice took up the defence. +</P> + +<P> +'The child said, as plain as words could say, "go away," and if thou +wouldst follow thine own will instead of heeding her wish, thou mun +put up with the wilfulness of the old Adam, of which it seems to me +thee hast getten thy share at thirty as well as little Bella at +two.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thirty!' said Mrs. Brunton, now fairly affronted. 'Thirty! why, +Sylvia, yo' know I'm but two years older than yo'; speak to that +woman an' tell her as I'm only four-and-twenty. Thirty, indeed!' +</P> + +<P> +'Molly's but four-and-twenty,' said Sylvia, in a pacificatory tone. +</P> + +<P> +'Whether she be twenty, or thirty, or forty, is alike to me,' said +Alice. 'I meant no harm. I meant but for t' say as her angry words +to the child bespoke her to be one of the foolish. I know not who +she is, nor what her age may be.' +</P> + +<P> +'She's an old friend of mine,' said Sylvia. 'She's Mrs. Brunton now, +but when I knowed her she was Molly Corney.' +</P> + +<P> +'Ay! and yo' were Sylvia Robson, and as bonny and light-hearted a +lass as any in a' t' Riding, though now yo're a poor widow +bewitched, left wi' a child as I mustn't speak a word about, an' +living wi' folk as talk about t' old Adam as if he wasn't dead and +done wi' long ago! It's a change, Sylvia, as makes my heart ache for +yo', to think on them old days when yo' were so thought on yo' might +have had any man, as Brunton often says; it were a great mistake as +yo' iver took up wi' yon man as has run away. But seven year '11 +soon be past fro' t' time he went off, and yo'll only be +six-and-twenty then; and there'll be a chance of a better husband +for yo' after all, so keep up yo'r heart, Sylvia.' +</P> + +<P> +Molly Brunton had put as much venom as she knew how into this +speech, meaning it as a vengeful payment for the supposition of her +being thirty, even more than for the reproof for her angry words +about the child. She thought that Alice Rose must be either mother +or aunt to Philip, from the serious cast of countenance that was +remarkable in both; and she rather exulted in the allusion to a +happier second marriage for Sylvia, with which she had concluded her +speech. It roused Alice, however, as effectually as if she had been +really a blood relation to Philip; but for a different reason. She +was not slow to detect the intentional offensiveness to herself in +what had been said; she was indignant at Sylvia for suffering the +words spoken to pass unanswered; but in truth they were too much in +keeping with Molly Brunton's character to make as much impression on +Sylvia as they did on a stranger; and besides, she felt as if the +less reply Molly received, the less likely would it be that she +would go on in the same strain. So she coaxed and chattered to her +child and behaved like a little coward in trying to draw out of the +conversation, while at the same time listening attentively. +</P> + +<P> +'As for Sylvia Hepburn as was Sylvia Robson, she knows my mind,' +said Alice, in grim indignation. 'She's humbling herself now, I +trust and pray, but she was light-minded and full of vanity when +Philip married her, and it might ha' been a lift towards her +salvation in one way; but it pleased the Lord to work in a different +way, and she mun wear her sackcloth and ashes in patience. So I'll +say naught more about her. But for him as is absent, as thee hast +spoken on so lightly and reproachfully, I'd have thee to know he +were one of a different kind to any thee ever knew, I reckon. If he +were led away by a pretty face to slight one as was fitter for him, +and who had loved him as the apple of her eye, it's him as is +suffering for it, inasmuch as he's a wanderer from his home, and an +outcast from wife and child.' +</P> + +<P> +To the surprise of all, Molly's words of reply were cut short even +when they were on her lips, by Sylvia. Pale, fire-eyed, and excited, +with Philip's child on one arm, and the other stretched out, she +said,— +</P> + +<P> +'Noane can tell—noane know. No one shall speak a judgment 'twixt +Philip and me. He acted cruel and wrong by me. But I've said my +words to him hissel', and I'm noane going to make any plaint to +others; only them as knows should judge. And it's not fitting, it's +not' (almost sobbing), 'to go on wi' talk like this afore me.' +</P> + +<P> +The two—for Hester, who was aware that her presence had only been +desired by Sylvia as a check to an unpleasant <I>tete-a-tete</I> +conversation, had slipped back to her business as soon as her mother +came in—the two looked with surprise at Sylvia; her words, her +whole manner, belonged to a phase of her character which seldom came +uppermost, and which had not been perceived by either of them +before. +</P> + +<P> +Alice Rose, though astonished, rather approved of Sylvia's speech; +it showed that she had more serious thought and feeling on the +subject than the old woman had given her credit for; her general +silence respecting her husband's disappearance had led Alice to +think that she was too childish to have received any deep impression +from the event. Molly Brunton gave vent to her opinion on Sylvia's +speech in the following words:— +</P> + +<P> +'Hoighty-toighty! That tells tales, lass. If yo' treated steady +Philip to many such looks an' speeches as yo'n given us now, it's +easy t' see why he took hisself off. Why, Sylvia, I niver saw it in +yo' when yo' was a girl; yo're grown into a regular little vixen, +theere wheere yo' stand!' +</P> + +<P> +Indeed she did look defiant, with the swift colour flushing her +cheeks to crimson on its return, and the fire in her eyes not yet +died away. But at Molly's jesting words she sank back into her usual +look and manner, only saying quietly,— +</P> + +<P> +'It's for noane to say whether I'm vixen or not, as doesn't know th' +past things as is buried in my heart. But I cannot hold them as my +friends as go on talking on either my husband or me before my very +face. What he was, I know; and what I am, I reckon he knows. And now +I'll go hurry tea, for yo'll be needing it, Molly!' +</P> + +<P> +The last clause of this speech was meant to make peace; but Molly +was in twenty minds as to whether she should accept the olive-branch +or not. Her temper, however, was of that obtuse kind which is not +easily ruffled; her mind, stagnant in itself, enjoyed excitement +from without; and her appetite was invariably good, so she stayed, +in spite of the inevitable <I>tete-a-tete</I> with Alice. The latter, +however, refused to be drawn into conversation again; replying to +Mrs. Brunton's speeches with a curt yes or no, when, indeed, she +replied at all. +</P> + +<P> +When all were gathered at tea, Sylvia was quite calm again; rather +paler than usual, and very attentive and subduced in her behaviour +to Alice; she would evidently fain have been silent, but as Molly +was her own especial guest, that could not be, so all her endeavours +went towards steering the conversation away from any awkward points. +But each of the four, let alone little Bella, was thankful when the +market-cart drew up at the shop door, that was to take Mrs. Brunton +back to her sister's house. +</P> + +<P> +When she was fairly off, Alice Rose opened her mouth in strong +condemnation; winding up with— +</P> + +<P> +'And if aught in my words gave thee cause for offence, Sylvia, it +was because my heart rose within me at the kind of talk thee and she +had been having about Philip; and her evil and light-minded counsel +to thee about waiting seven years, and then wedding another.' +</P> + +<P> +Hard as these words may seem when repeated, there was something of a +nearer approach to an apology in Mrs. Rose's manner than Sylvia had +ever seen in it before. She was silent for a few moments, then she +said,— +</P> + +<P> +'I ha' often thought of telling yo' and Hester, special-like, when +yo've been so kind to my little Bella, that Philip an' me could +niver come together again; no, not if he came home this very +night——' +</P> + +<P> +She would have gone on speaking, but Hester interrupted her with a +low cry of dismay. +</P> + +<P> +Alice said,— +</P> + +<P> +'Hush thee, Hester. It's no business o' thine. Sylvia Hepburn, +thou'rt speaking like a silly child.' +</P> + +<P> +'No. I'm speaking like a woman; like a woman as finds out she's been +cheated by men as she trusted, and as has no help for it. I'm noane +going to say any more about it. It's me as has been wronged, and as +has to bear it: only I thought I'd tell yo' both this much, that yo' +might know somewhat why he went away, and how I said my last word +about it.' +</P> + +<P> +So indeed it seemed. To all questions and remonstrances from Alice, +Sylvia turned a deaf ear. She averted her face from Hester's sad, +wistful looks; only when they were parting for the night, at the top +of the little staircase, she turned, and putting her arms round +Hester's neck she laid her head on her neck, and whispered,— +</P> + +<P> +'Poor Hester—poor, poor Hester! if yo' an' he had but been married +together, what a deal o' sorrow would ha' been spared to us all!' +</P> + +<P> +Hester pushed her away as she finished these words; looked +searchingly into her face, her eyes, and then followed Sylvia into +her room, where Bella lay sleeping, shut the door, and almost knelt +down at Sylvia's feet, clasping her, and hiding her face in the +folds of the other's gown. +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvia, Sylvia,' she murmured, 'some one has told you—I thought no +one knew—it's no sin—it's done away with now—indeed it is—it was +long ago—before yo' were married; but I cannot forget. It was a +shame, perhaps, to have thought on it iver, when he niver thought o' +me; but I niver believed as any one could ha' found it out. I'm just +fit to sink into t' ground, what wi' my sorrow and my shame.' +</P> + +<P> +Hester was stopped by her own rising sobs, immediately she was in +Sylvia's arms. Sylvia was sitting on the ground holding her, and +soothing her with caresses and broken words. +</P> + +<P> +'I'm allays saying t' wrong things,' said she. 'It seems as if I +were all upset to-day; and indeed I am;' she added, alluding to the +news of Kinraid's marriage she had yet to think upon. +</P> + +<P> +'But it wasn't yo', Hester: it were nothing yo' iver said, or did, +or looked, for that matter. It were yo'r mother as let it out.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, mother! mother!' wailed out Hester; 'I niver thought as any one +but God would ha' known that I had iver for a day thought on his +being more to me than a brother.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia made no reply, only went on stroking Hester's smooth brown +hair, off which her cap had fallen. Sylvia was thinking how strange +life was, and how love seemed to go all at cross purposes; and was +losing herself in bewilderment at the mystery of the world; she was +almost startled when Hester rose up, and taking Sylvia's hands in +both of hers, and looking solemnly at her, said,— +</P> + +<P> +'Sylvia, yo' know what has been my trouble and my shame, and I'm +sure yo're sorry for me—for I will humble myself to yo', and own +that for many months before yo' were married, I felt my +disappointment like a heavy burden laid on me by day and by night; +but now I ask yo', if yo've any pity for me for what I went through, +or if yo've any love for me because of yo'r dead mother's love for +me, or because of any fellowship, or daily breadliness between us +two,—put the hard thoughts of Philip away from out yo'r heart; he +may ha' done yo' wrong, anyway yo' think that he has; I niver knew +him aught but kind and good; but if he comes back from wheriver in +th' wide world he's gone to (and there's not a night but I pray God +to keep him, and send him safe back), yo' put away the memory of +past injury, and forgive it all, and be, what yo' can be, Sylvia, if +you've a mind to, just the kind, good wife he ought to have.' +</P> + +<P> +'I cannot; yo' know nothing about it, Hester.' +</P> + +<P> +'Tell me, then,' pleaded Hester. +</P> + +<P> +'No!' said Sylvia, after a moment's hesitation; 'I'd do a deal for +yo', I would, but I daren't forgive Philip, even if I could; I took +a great oath again' him. Ay, yo' may look shocked at me, but it's +him as yo' ought for to be shocked at if yo' knew all. I said I'd +niver forgive him; I shall keep to my word.' +</P> + +<P> +'I think I'd better pray for his death, then,' said Hester, +hopelessly, and almost bitterly, loosing her hold of Sylvia's hands. +</P> + +<P> +'If it weren't for baby theere, I could think as it were my death as +'ud be best. Them as one thinks t' most on, forgets one soonest.' +</P> + +<P> +It was Kinraid to whom she was alluding; but Hester did not +understand her; and after standing for a moment in silence, she +kissed her, and left her for the night. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap40"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XL +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER +</H3> + +<P> +After this agitation, and these partial confidences, no more was +said on the subject of Philip for many weeks. They avoided even the +slightest allusion to him; and none of them knew how seldom or how +often he might be present in the minds of the others. +</P> + +<P> +One day the little Bella was unusually fractious with some slight +childish indisposition, and Sylvia was obliged to have recourse to a +never-failing piece of amusement; namely, to take the child into the +shop, when the number of new, bright-coloured articles was sure to +beguile the little girl out of her fretfulness. She was walking +along the high terrace of the counter, kept steady by her mother's +hand, when Mr. Dawson's market-cart once more stopped before the +door. But it was not Mrs. Brunton who alighted now; it was a very +smartly-dressed, very pretty young lady, who put one dainty foot +before the other with care, as if descending from such a primitive +vehicle were a new occurrence in her life. Then she looked up at the +names above the shop-door, and after ascertaining that this was +indeed the place she desired to find, she came in blushing. +</P> + +<P> +'Is Mrs. Hepburn at home?' she asked of Hester, whose position in the +shop brought her forwards to receive the customers, while Sylvia +drew Bella out of sight behind some great bales of red flannel. +</P> + +<P> +'Can I see her?' the sweet, south-country voice went on, still +addressing Hester. Sylvia heard the inquiry, and came forwards, with +a little rustic awkwardness, feeling both shy and curious. +</P> + +<P> +'Will yo' please walk this way, ma'am?' said she, leading her +visitor back into her own dominion of the parlour, and leaving Bella +to Hester's willing care. +</P> + +<P> +'You don't know me!' said the pretty young lady, joyously. 'But I +think you knew my husband. I am Mrs. Kinraid!' +</P> + +<P> +A sob of surprise rose to Sylvia's lips—she choked it down, +however, and tried to conceal any emotion she might feel, in placing +a chair for her visitor, and trying to make her feel welcome, +although, if the truth must be told, Sylvia was wondering all the +time why her visitor came, and how soon she would go. +</P> + +<P> +'You knew Captain Kinraid, did you not?' said the young lady, with +innocent inquiry; to which Sylvia's lips formed the answer, 'Yes,' +but no clear sound issued therefrom. +</P> + +<P> +'But I know your husband knew the captain; is he at home yet? Can I +speak to him? I do so want to see him.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia was utterly bewildered; Mrs. Kinraid, this pretty, joyous, +prosperous little bird of a woman, Philip, Charley's wife, what +could they have in common? what could they know of each other? All +she could say in answer to Mrs. Kinraid's eager questions, and still +more eager looks, was, that her husband was from home, had been long +from home: she did not know where he was, she did not know when he +would come back. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Kinraid's face fell a little, partly from her own real +disappointment, partly out of sympathy with the hopeless, +indifferent tone of Sylvia's replies. +</P> + +<P> +'Mrs. Dawson told me he had gone away rather suddenly a year ago, but +I thought he might be come home by now. I am expecting the captain +early next month. Oh! how I should have liked to see Mr. Hepburn, and +to thank him for saving the captain's life!' +</P> + +<P> +'What do yo' mean?' asked Sylvia, stirred out of all assumed +indifference. 'The captain! is that' (not 'Charley', she could not +use that familiar name to the pretty young wife before her) 'yo'r +husband?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, you knew him, didn't you? when he used to be staying with Mr +Corney, his uncle?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, I knew him; but I don't understand. Will yo' please to tell me +all about it, ma'am?' said Sylvia, faintly. +</P> + +<P> +'I thought your husband would have told you all about it; I hardly +know where to begin. You know my husband is a sailor?' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia nodded assent, listening greedily, her heart beating thick +all the time. +</P> + +<P> +'And he's now a Commander in the Royal Navy, all earned by his own +bravery! Oh! I am so proud of him!' +</P> + +<P> +So could Sylvia have been if she had been his wife; as it was, she +thought how often she had felt sure that he would be a great man +some day. +</P> + +<P> +'And he has been at the siege of Acre.' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia looked perplexed at these strange words, and Mrs. Kinraid +caught the look. +</P> + +<P> +'St Jean d'Acre, you know—though it's fine saying "you know", when +I didn't know a bit about it myself till the captain's ship was +ordered there, though I was the head girl at Miss Dobbin's in the +geography class—Acre is a seaport town, not far from Jaffa, which +is the modern name for Joppa, where St Paul went to long ago; you've +read of that, I'm sure, and Mount Carmel, where the prophet Elijah +was once, all in Palestine, you know, only the Turks have got it +now?' +</P> + +<P> +'But I don't understand yet,' said Sylvia, plaintively; 'I daresay +it's all very true about St Paul, but please, ma'am, will yo' tell +me about yo'r husband and mine—have they met again?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, at Acre, I tell you,' said Mrs. Kinraid, with pretty petulance. +'The Turks held the town, and the French wanted to take it; and we, +that is the British Fleet, wouldn't let them. So Sir Sidney Smith, a +commodore and a great friend of the captain's, landed in order to +fight the French; and the captain and many of the sailors landed +with him; and it was burning hot; and the poor captain was wounded, +and lay a-dying of pain and thirst within the enemy's—that is the +French—fire; so that they were ready to shoot any one of his own +side who came near him. They thought he was dead himself, you see, +as he was very near; and would have been too, if your husband had +not come out of shelter, and taken him up in his arms or on his back +(I couldn't make out which), and carried him safe within the walls.' +</P> + +<P> +'It couldn't have been Philip,' said Sylvia, dubiously. +</P> + +<P> +'But it was. The captain says so; and he's not a man to be mistaken. +I thought I'd got his letter with me; and I would have read you a +part of it, but I left it at Mrs. Dawson's in my desk; and I can't +send it to you,' blushing as she remembered certain passages in +which 'the captain' wrote very much like a lover, 'or else I would. +But you may be quite sure it was your husband that ventured into all +that danger to save his old friend's life, or the captain would not +have said so.' +</P> + +<P> +'But they weren't—they weren't—not to call great friends.' +</P> + +<P> +'I wish I'd got the letter here; I can't think how I could be so +stupid; I think I can almost remember the very words, though—I've +read them over so often. He says, "Just as I gave up all hope, I saw +one Philip Hepburn, a man whom I had known at Monkshaven, and whom I +had some reason to remember well"—(I'm sure he says so—"remember +well"), "he saw me too, and came at the risk of his life to where I +lay. I fully expected he would be shot down; and I shut my eyes not +to see the end of my last chance. The shot rained about him, and I +think he was hit; but he took me up and carried me under cover." I'm +sure he says that, I've read it over so often; and he goes on and +says how he hunted for Mr. Hepburn all through the ships, as soon as +ever he could; but he could hear nothing of him, either alive or +dead. Don't go so white, for pity's sake!' said she, suddenly +startled by Sylvia's blanching colour. 'You see, because he couldn't +find him alive is no reason for giving him up as dead; because his +name wasn't to be found on any of the ships' books; so the captain +thinks he must have been known by a different name to his real one. +Only he says he should like to have seen him to have thanked him; +and he says he would give a deal to know what has become of him; and +as I was staying two days at Mrs. Dawson's, I told them I must come +over to Monkshaven, if only for five minutes, just to hear if your +good husband was come home, and to shake his hands, that helped to +save my own dear captain.' +</P> + +<P> +'I don't think it could have been Philip,' reiterated Sylvia. +</P> + +<P> +'Why not?' asked her visitor; 'you say you don't know where he is; +why mightn't he have been there where the captain says he was?' +</P> + +<P> +'But he wasn't a sailor, nor yet a soldier.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! but he was. I think somewhere the captain calls him a marine; +that's neither one nor the other, but a little of both. He'll be +coming home some day soon; and then you'll see!' +</P> + +<P> +Alice Rose came in at this minute, and Mrs. Kinraid jumped to the +conclusion that she was Sylvia's mother, and in her overflowing +gratitude and friendliness to all the family of him who had 'saved +the captain' she went forward, and shook the old woman's hand in +that pleasant confiding way that wins all hearts. +</P> + +<P> +'Here's your daughter, ma'am!' said she to the half-astonished, +half-pleased Alice. 'I'm Mrs. Kinraid, the wife of the captain that +used to be in these parts, and I'm come to bring her news of her +husband, and she don't half believe me, though it's all to his +credit, I'm sure.' +</P> + +<P> +Alice looked so perplexed that Sylvia felt herself bound to explain. +</P> + +<P> +'She says he's either a soldier or a sailor, and a long way off at +some place named in t' Bible.' +</P> + +<P> +'Philip Hepburn led away to be a soldier!' said she, 'who had once +been a Quaker?' +</P> + +<P> +'Yes, and a very brave one too, and one that it would do my heart +good to look upon,' exclaimed Mrs. Kinraid. 'He's been saving my +husband's life in the Holy Land, where Jerusalem is, you know.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay!' said Alice, a little scornfully. 'I can forgive Sylvia for +not being over keen to credit thy news. Her man of peace becoming a +man of war; and suffered to enter Jerusalem, which is a heavenly and +a typical city at this time; while me, as is one of the elect, is +obliged to go on dwelling in Monkshaven, just like any other body.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay, but,' said Mrs. Kinraid, gently, seeing she was touching on +delicate ground, 'I did not say he had gone to Jerusalem, but my +husband saw him in those parts, and he was doing his duty like a +brave, good man; ay, and more than his duty; and, you may take my +word for it, he'll be at home some day soon, and all I beg is that +you'll let the captain and me know, for I'm sure if we can, we'll +both come and pay our respects to him. And I'm very glad I've seen +you,' said she, rising to go, and putting out her hand to shake that +of Sylvia; 'for, besides being Hepburn's wife, I'm pretty sure I've +heard the captain speak of you; and if ever you come to Bristol I +hope you'll come and see us on Clifton Downs.' +</P> + +<P> +She went away, leaving Sylvia almost stunned by the new ideas +presented to her. Philip a soldier! Philip in a battle, risking his +life. Most strange of all, Charley and Philip once more meeting +together, not as rivals or as foes, but as saviour and saved! Add to +all this the conviction, strengthened by every word that happy, +loving wife had uttered, that Kinraid's old, passionate love for +herself had faded away and vanished utterly: its very existence +apparently blotted out of his memory. She had torn up her love for +him by the roots, but she felt as if she could never forget that it +had been. +</P> + +<P> +Hester brought back Bella to her mother. She had not liked to +interrupt the conversation with the strange lady before; and now she +found her mother in an obvious state of excitement; Sylvia quieter +than usual. +</P> + +<P> +'That was Kinraid's wife, Hester! Him that was th' specksioneer as +made such a noise about t' place at the time of Darley's death. He's +now a captain—a navy captain, according to what she says. And she'd +fain have us believe that Philip is abiding in all manner of +Scripture places; places as has been long done away with, but the +similitude whereof is in the heavens, where the elect shall one day +see them. And she says Philip is there, and a soldier, and that he +saved her husband's life, and is coming home soon. I wonder what +John and Jeremiah 'll say to his soldiering then? It'll noane be to +their taste, I'm thinking.' +</P> + +<P> +This was all very unintelligible to Hester, and she would dearly +have liked to question Sylvia; but Sylvia sate a little apart, with +Bella on her knee, her cheek resting on her child's golden curls, +and her eyes fixed and almost trance-like, as if she were seeing +things not present. +</P> + +<P> +So Hester had to be content with asking her mother as many +elucidatory questions as she could; and after all did not gain a +very clear idea of what had really been said by Mrs. Kinraid, as her +mother was more full of the apparent injustice of Philip's being +allowed the privilege of treading on holy ground—if, indeed, that +holy ground existed on this side heaven, which she was inclined to +dispute—than to confine herself to the repetition of words, or +narration of facts. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly Sylvia roused herself to a sense of Hester's deep interest +and balked inquiries, and she went over the ground rapidly. +</P> + +<P> +'Yo'r mother says right—she is his wife. And he's away fighting; +and got too near t' French as was shooting and firing all round him; +and just then, according to her story, Philip saw him, and went +straight into t' midst o' t' shots, and fetched him out o' danger. +That's what she says, and upholds.' +</P> + +<P> +'And why should it not be?' asked Hester, her cheek flushing. +</P> + +<P> +But Sylvia only shook her head, and said, +</P> + +<P> +'I cannot tell. It may be so. But they'd little cause to be friends, +and it seems all so strange—Philip a soldier, and them meeting +theere after all!' +</P> + +<P> +Hester laid the story of Philip's bravery to her heart—she fully +believed in it. Sylvia pondered it more deeply still; the causes for +her disbelief, or, at any rate, for her wonder, were unknown to +Hester! Many a time she sank to sleep with the picture of the event +narrated by Mrs. Kinraid as present to her mind as her imagination or +experience could make it: first one figure prominent, then another. +Many a morning she wakened up, her heart beating wildly, why, she +knew not, till she shuddered at the remembrance of the scenes that +had passed in her dreams: scenes that might be acted in reality that +very day; for Philip might come back, and then? +</P> + +<P> +And where was Philip all this time, these many weeks, these heavily +passing months? +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap41"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XLI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE BEDESMAN OF ST SEPULCHRE +</H3> + +<P> +Philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship. If his heart had +been light, he might have rallied sooner; but he was so depressed he +did not care to live. His shattered jaw-bone, his burnt and +blackened face, his many injuries of body, were torture to both his +physical frame, and his sick, weary heart. No more chance for him, +if indeed there ever had been any, of returning gay and gallant, and +thus regaining his wife's love. This had been his poor, foolish +vision in the first hour of his enlistment; and the vain dream had +recurred more than once in the feverish stage of excitement which +the new scenes into which he had been hurried as a recruit had +called forth. But that was all over now. He knew that it was the +most unlikely thing in the world to have come to pass; and yet those +were happy days when he could think of it as barely possible. Now +all he could look forward to was disfigurement, feebleness, and the +bare pittance that keeps pensioners from absolute want. +</P> + +<P> +Those around him were kind enough to him in their fashion, and +attended to his bodily requirements; but they had no notion of +listening to any revelations of unhappiness, if Philip had been the +man to make confidences of that kind. As it was, he lay very still +in his berth, seldom asking for anything, and always saying he was +better, when the ship-surgeon came round with his daily inquiries. +But he did not care to rally, and was rather sorry to find that his +case was considered so interesting in a surgical point of view, that +he was likely to receive a good deal more than the average amount of +attention. Perhaps it was owing to this that he recovered at all. +The doctors said it was the heat that made him languid, for that his +wounds and burns were all doing well at last; and by-and-by they +told him they had ordered him 'home'. His pulse sank under the +surgeon's finger at the mention of the word; but he did not say a +word. He was too indifferent to life and the world to have a will; +otherwise they might have kept their pet patient a little longer +where he was. +</P> + +<P> +Slowly passing from ship to ship as occasion served; resting here +and there in garrison hospitals, Philip at length reached Portsmouth +on the evening of a September day in 1799. The transport-ship in +which he was, was loaded with wounded and invalided soldiers and +sailors; all who could manage it in any way struggled on deck to +catch the first view of the white coasts of England. One man lifted +his arm, took off his cap, and feebly waved it aloft, crying, 'Old +England for ever!' in a faint shrill voice, and then burst into +tears and sobbed aloud. Others tried to pipe up 'Rule Britannia', +while more sate, weak and motionless, looking towards the shores +that once, not so long ago, they never thought to see again. Philip +was one of these; his place a little apart from the other men. He +was muffled up in a great military cloak that had been given him by +one of his officers; he felt the September breeze chill after his +sojourn in a warmer climate, and in his shattered state of health. +</P> + +<P> +As the ship came in sight of Portsmouth harbour, the signal flags +ran up the ropes; the beloved Union Jack floated triumphantly over +all. Return signals were made from the harbour; on board all became +bustle and preparation for landing; while on shore there was the +evident movement of expectation, and men in uniform were seen +pressing their way to the front, as if to them belonged the right of +reception. They were the men from the barrack hospital, that had +been signalled for, come down with ambulance litters and other marks +of forethought for the sick and wounded, who were returning to the +country for which they had fought and suffered. +</P> + +<P> +With a dash and a great rocking swing the vessel came up to her +appointed place, and was safely moored. Philip sat still, almost as +if he had no part in the cries of welcome, the bustling care, the +loud directions that cut the air around him, and pierced his nerves +through and through. But one in authority gave the order; and +Philip, disciplined to obedience, rose to find his knapsack and +leave the ship. Passive as he seemed to be, he had his likings for +particular comrades; there was one especially, a man as different +from Philip as well could be, to whom the latter had always attached +himself; a merry fellow from Somersetshire, who was almost always +cheerful and bright, though Philip had overheard the doctors say he +would never be the man he was before he had that shot through the +side. This marine would often sit making his fellows laugh, and +laughing himself at his own good-humoured jokes, till so terrible a +fit of coughing came on that those around him feared he would die in +the paroxysm. After one of these fits he had gasped out some words, +which led Philip to question him a little; and it turned out that in +the quiet little village of Potterne, far inland, nestled beneath +the high stretches of Salisbury Plain, he had a wife and a child, a +little girl, just the same age even to a week as Philip's own little +Bella. It was this that drew Philip towards the man; and this that +made Philip wait and go ashore along with the poor consumptive +marine. +</P> + +<P> +The litters had moved off towards the hospital, the sergeant in +charge had given his words of command to the remaining invalids, who +tried to obey them to the best of their power, falling into +something like military order for their march; but soon, very soon, +the weakest broke step, and lagged behind; and felt as if the rough +welcomes and rude expressions of sympathy from the crowd around were +almost too much for them. Philip and his companion were about +midway, when suddenly a young woman with a child in her arms forced +herself through the people, between the soldiers who kept pressing +on either side, and threw herself on the neck of Philip's friend. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Jem!' she sobbed, 'I've walked all the road from Potterne. I've +never stopped but for food and rest for Nelly, and now I've got you +once again, I've got you once again, bless God for it!' +</P> + +<P> +She did not seem to see the deadly change that had come over her +husband since she parted with him a ruddy young labourer; she had +got him once again, as she phrased it, and that was enough for her; +she kissed his face, his hands, his very coat, nor would she be +repulsed from walking beside him and holding his hand, while her +little girl ran along scared by the voices and the strange faces, +and clinging to her mammy's gown. +</P> + +<P> +Jem coughed, poor fellow! he coughed his churchyard cough; and +Philip bitterly envied him—envied his life, envied his approaching +death; for was he not wrapped round with that woman's tender love, +and is not such love stronger than death? Philip had felt as if his +own heart was grown numb, and as though it had changed to a cold +heavy stone. But at the contrast of this man's lot to his own, he +felt that he had yet the power of suffering left to him. +</P> + +<P> +The road they had to go was full of people, kept off in some measure +by the guard of soldiers. All sorts of kindly speeches, and many a +curious question, were addressed to the poor invalids as they walked +along. Philip's jaw, and the lower part of his face, were bandaged +up; his cap was slouched down; he held his cloak about him, and +shivered within its folds. +</P> + +<P> +They came to a standstill from some slight obstacle at the corner of +a street. Down the causeway of this street a naval officer with a +lady on his arm was walking briskly, with a step that told of health +and a light heart. He stayed his progress though, when he saw the +convoy of maimed and wounded men; he said something, of which Philip +only caught the words, 'same uniform,' 'for his sake,' to the young +lady, whose cheek blanched a little, but whose eyes kindled. Then +leaving her for an instant, he pressed forward; he was close to +Philip,—poor sad Philip absorbed in his own thoughts,—so absorbed +that he noticed nothing till he heard a voice at his ear, having the +Northumbrian burr, the Newcastle inflections which he knew of old, +and that were to him like the sick memory of a deadly illness; and +then he turned his muffled face to the speaker, though he knew well +enough who it was, and averted his eyes after one sight of the +handsome, happy man,—the man whose life he had saved once, and +would save again, at the risk of his own, but whom, for all that, he +prayed that he might never meet more on earth. +</P> + +<P> +'Here, my fine fellow, take this,' forcing a crown piece into +Philip's hand. 'I wish it were more; I'd give you a pound if I had +it with me.' +</P> + +<P> +Philip muttered something, and held out the coin to Captain Kinraid, +of course in vain; nor was there time to urge it back upon the +giver, for the obstacle to their progress was suddenly removed, the +crowd pressed upon the captain and his wife, the procession moved +on, and Philip along with it, holding the piece in his hand, and +longing to throw it far away. Indeed he was on the point of dropping +it, hoping to do so unperceived, when he bethought him of giving it +to Jem's wife, the footsore woman, limping happily along by her +husband's side. They thanked him, and spoke in his praise more than +he could well bear. It was no credit to him to give that away which +burned his fingers as long as he kept it. +</P> + +<P> +Philip knew that the injuries he had received in the explosion on +board the <I>Theseus</I> would oblige him to leave the service. He also +believed that they would entitle him to a pension. But he had little +interest in his future life; he was without hope, and in a depressed +state of health. He remained for some little time stationary, and +then went through all the forms of dismissal on account of wounds +received in service, and was turned out loose upon the world, +uncertain where to go, indifferent as to what became of him. +</P> + +<P> +It was fine, warm October weather as he turned his back upon the +coast, and set off on his walk northwards. Green leaves were yet +upon the trees; the hedges were one flush of foliage and the wild +rough-flavoured fruits of different kinds; the fields were tawny +with the uncleared-off stubble, or emerald green with the growth of +the aftermath. The roadside cottage gardens were gay with hollyhocks +and Michaelmas daisies and marigolds, and the bright panes of the +windows glittered through a veil of China roses. +</P> + +<P> +The war was a popular one, and, as a natural consequence, soldiers +and sailors were heroes everywhere. Philip's long drooping form, his +arm hung in a sling, his face scarred and blackened, his jaw bound +up with a black silk handkerchief; these marks of active service +were reverenced by the rustic cottagers as though they had been +crowns and sceptres. Many a hard-handed labourer left his seat by +the chimney corner, and came to his door to have a look at one who +had been fighting the French, and pushed forward to have a grasp of +the stranger's hand as he gave back the empty cup into the good +wife's keeping, for the kind homely women were ever ready with milk +or homebrewed to slake the feverish traveller's thirst when he +stopped at their doors and asked for a drink of water. +</P> + +<P> +At the village public-house he had had a welcome of a more +interested character, for the landlord knew full well that his +circle of customers would be large that night, if it was only known +that he had within his doors a soldier or a sailor who had seen +service. The rustic politicians would gather round Philip, and smoke +and drink, and then question and discuss till they were drouthy +again; and in their sturdy obtuse minds they set down the extra +glass and the supernumerary pipe to the score of patriotism. +</P> + +<P> +Altogether human nature turned its sunny side out to Philip just +now; and not before he needed the warmth of brotherly kindness to +cheer his shivering soul. Day after day he drifted northwards, +making but the slow progress of a feeble man, and yet this short +daily walk tired him so much that he longed for rest—for the +morning to come when he needed not to feel that in the course of an +hour or two he must be up and away. +</P> + +<P> +He was toiling on with this longing at his heart when he saw that he +was drawing near a stately city, with a great old cathedral in the +centre keeping solemn guard. This place might be yet two or three +miles distant; he was on a rising ground looking down upon it. A +labouring man passing by, observed his pallid looks and his languid +attitude, and told him for his comfort, that if he turned down a +lane to the left a few steps farther on, he would find himself at +the Hospital of St Sepulchre, where bread and beer were given to all +comers, and where he might sit him down and rest awhile on the old +stone benches within the shadow of the gateway. Obeying these +directions, Philip came upon a building which dated from the time of +Henry the Fifth. Some knight who had fought in the French wars of +that time, and had survived his battles and come home to his old +halls, had been stirred up by his conscience, or by what was +equivalent in those days, his confessor, to build and endow a +hospital for twelve decayed soldiers, and a chapel wherein they were +to attend the daily masses he ordained to be said till the end of +all time (which eternity lasted rather more than a century, pretty +well for an eternity bespoken by a man), for his soul and the souls +of those whom he had slain. There was a large division of the +quadrangular building set apart for the priest who was to say these +masses; and to watch over the well-being of the bedesmen. In process +of years the origin and primary purpose of the hospital had been +forgotten by all excepting the local antiquaries; and the place +itself came to be regarded as a very pleasant quaint set of +almshouses; and the warden's office (he who should have said or sung +his daily masses was now called the warden, and read daily prayers +and preached a sermon on Sundays) an agreeable sinecure. +</P> + +<P> +Another legacy of old Sir Simon Bray was that of a small croft of +land, the rent or profits of which were to go towards giving to all +who asked for it a manchet of bread and a cup of good beer. This +beer was, so Sir Simon ordained, to be made after a certain receipt +which he left, in which ground ivy took the place of hops. But the +receipt, as well as the masses, was modernized according to the +progress of time. +</P> + +<P> +Philip stood under a great broad stone archway; the back-door into +the warden's house was on the right side; a kind of buttery-hatch +was placed by the porter's door on the opposite side. After some +consideration, Philip knocked at the closed shutter, and the signal +seemed to be well understood. He heard a movement within; the hatch +was drawn aside, and his bread and beer were handed to him by a +pleasant-looking old man, who proved himself not at all disinclined +for conversation. +</P> + +<P> +'You may sit down on yonder bench,' said he. 'Nay, man! sit i' the +sun, for it's a chilly place, this, and then you can look through +the grate and watch th' old fellows toddling about in th' quad.' +</P> + +<P> +Philip sat down where the warm October sun slanted upon him, and +looked through the iron railing at the peaceful sight. +</P> + +<P> +A great square of velvet lawn, intersected diagonally with broad +flag-paved walks, the same kind of walk going all round the +quadrangle; low two-storied brick houses, tinted gray and yellow by +age, and in many places almost covered with vines, Virginian +creepers, and monthly roses; before each house a little plot of +garden ground, bright with flowers, and evidently tended with the +utmost care; on the farther side the massive chapel; here and there +an old or infirm man sunning himself, or leisurely doing a bit of +gardening, or talking to one of his comrades—the place looked as if +care and want, and even sorrow, were locked out and excluded by the +ponderous gate through which Philip was gazing. +</P> + +<P> +'It's a nice enough place, bean't it?' said the porter, interpreting +Philip's looks pretty accurately. 'Leastways, for them as likes it. +I've got a bit weary on it myself; it's so far from th' world, as a +man may say; not a decent public within a mile and a half, where one +can hear a bit o' news of an evening.' +</P> + +<P> +'I think I could make myself very content here,' replied Philip. +'That's to say, if one were easy in one's mind.' +</P> + +<P> +'Ay, ay, my man. That's it everywhere. Why, I don't think that I +could enjoy myself—not even at th' White Hart, where they give you +as good a glass of ale for twopence as anywhere i' th' four +kingdoms—I couldn't, to say, flavour my ale even there, if my old +woman lay a-dying; which is a sign as it's the heart, and not the +ale, as makes the drink.' +</P> + +<P> +Just then the warden's back-door opened, and out came the warden +himself, dressed in full clerical costume. +</P> + +<P> +He was going into the neighbouring city, but he stopped to speak to +Philip, the wounded soldier; and all the more readily because his +old faded uniform told the warden's experienced eye that he had +belonged to the Marines. +</P> + +<P> +'I hope you enjoy the victual provided for you by the founder of St +Sepulchre,' said he, kindly. 'You look but poorly, my good fellow, +and as if a slice of good cold meat would help your bread down.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thank you, sir!' said Philip. 'I'm not hungry, only weary, and glad +of a draught of beer.' +</P> + +<P> +'You've been in the Marines, I see. Where have you been serving?' +</P> + +<P> +'I was at the siege of Acre, last May, sir.' +</P> + +<P> +'At Acre! Were you, indeed? Then perhaps you know my boy Harry? He +was in the——th.' +</P> + +<P> +'It was my company,' said Philip, warming up a little. Looking back +upon his soldier's life, it seemed to him to have many charms, +because it was so full of small daily interests. +</P> + +<P> +'Then, did you know my son, Lieutenant Pennington?' +</P> + +<P> +'It was he that gave me this cloak, sir, when they were sending me +back to England. I had been his servant for a short time before I +was wounded by the explosion on board the <I>Theseus</I>, and he said I +should feel the cold of the voyage. He's very kind; and I've heard +say he promises to be a first-rate officer.' +</P> + +<P> +'You shall have a slice of roast beef, whether you want it or not,' +said the warden, ringing the bell at his own back-door. 'I recognize +the cloak now—the young scamp! How soon he has made it shabby, +though,' he continued, taking up a corner where there was an immense +tear not too well botched up. 'And so you were on board the +<I>Theseus</I> at the time of the explosion? Bring some cold meat here +for the good man—or stay! Come in with me, and then you can tell +Mrs. Pennington and the young ladies all you know about Harry,—and +the siege,—and the explosion.' +</P> + +<P> +So Philip was ushered into the warden's house and made to eat roast +beef almost against his will; and he was questioned and +cross-questioned by three eager ladies, all at the same time, as it +seemed to him. He had given all possible details on the subjects +about which they were curious; and was beginning to consider how he +could best make his retreat, when the younger Miss Pennington went +up to her father—who had all this time stood, with his hat on, +holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his back to the fire. He +bent his ear down a very little to hear some whispered suggestion of +his daughter's, nodded his head, and then went on questioning +Philip, with kindly inquisitiveness and patronage, as the rich do +question the poor. +</P> + +<P> +'And where are you going to now?' +</P> + +<P> +Philip did not answer directly. He wondered in his own mind where he +was going. At length he said, +</P> + +<P> +'Northwards, I believe. But perhaps I shall never reach there.' +</P> + +<P> +'Haven't you friends? Aren't you going to them?' +</P> + +<P> +There was again a pause; a cloud came over Philip's countenance. He +said, +</P> + +<P> +'No! I'm not going to my friends. I don't know that I've got any +left.' +</P> + +<P> +They interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that he had +either lost his friends by death, or offended them by enlisting. +</P> + +<P> +The warden went on, +</P> + +<P> +'I ask, because we've got a cottage vacant in the mead. Old Dobson, +who was with General Wolfe at the taking of Quebec, died a fortnight +ago. With such injuries as yours, I fear you'll never be able to +work again. But we require strict testimonials as to character,' he +added, with as penetrating a look as he could summon up at Philip. +</P> + +<P> +Philip looked unmoved, either by the offer of the cottage, or the +illusion to the possibility of his character not being satisfactory. +He was grateful enough in reality, but too heavy at heart to care +very much what became of him. +</P> + +<P> +The warden and his family, who were accustomed to consider a +settlement at St Sepulchre's as the sum of all good to a worn-out +soldier, were a little annoyed at Philip's cool way of receiving the +proposition. The warden went on to name the contingent advantages. +</P> + +<P> +'Besides the cottage, you would have a load of wood for firing on +All Saints', on Christmas, and on Candlemas days—a blue gown and +suit of clothes to match every Michaelmas, and a shilling a day to +keep yourself in all other things. Your dinner you would have with +the other men, in hall.' +</P> + +<P> +'The warden himself goes into hall every day, and sees that +everything is comfortable, and says grace,' added the warden's lady. +</P> + +<P> +'I know I seem stupid,' said Philip, almost humbly, 'not to be more +grateful, for it's far beyond what I iver expected or thought for +again, and it's a great temptation, for I'm just worn out with +fatigue. Several times I've thought I must lie down under a hedge, +and just die for very weariness. But once I had a wife and a child +up in the north,' he stopped. +</P> + +<P> +'And are they dead?' asked one of the young ladies in a soft +sympathizing tone. Her eyes met Philip's, full of dumb woe. He tried +to speak; he wanted to explain more fully, yet not to reveal the +truth. +</P> + +<P> +'Well!' said the warden, thinking he perceived the real state of +things, 'what I propose is this. You shall go into old Dobson's +house at once, as a kind of probationary bedesman. I'll write to +Harry, and get your character from him. Stephen Freeman I think you +said your name was? Before I can receive his reply you'll have been +able to tell how you'd like the kind of life; and at any rate you'll +have the rest you seem to require in the meantime. You see, I take +Harry's having given you that cloak as a kind of character,' added +he, smiling kindly. 'Of course you'll have to conform to rules just +like all the rest,—chapel at eight, dinner at twelve, lights out at +nine; but I'll tell you the remainder of our regulations as we walk +across quad to your new quarters.' +</P> + +<P> +And thus Philip, almost in spite of himself, became installed in a +bedesman's house at St Sepulchre. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap42"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XLII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A FABLE AT FAULT +</H3> + +<P> +Philip took possession of the two rooms which had belonged to the +dead Sergeant Dobson. They were furnished sufficiently for every +comfort by the trustees of the hospital. Some little fragments of +ornament, some small articles picked up in distant countries, a few +tattered books, remained in the rooms as legacies from their former +occupant. +</P> + +<P> +At first the repose of the life and the place was inexpressibly +grateful to Philip. He had always shrunk from encountering +strangers, and displaying his blackened and scarred countenance to +them, even where such disfigurement was most regarded as a mark of +honour. In St Sepulchre's he met none but the same set day after +day, and when he had once told the tale of how it happened and +submitted to their gaze, it was over for ever, if he so minded. The +slight employment his garden gave him—there was a kitchen-garden +behind each house, as well as the flower-plot in front—and the +daily arrangement of his parlour and chamber were, at the beginning +of his time of occupation, as much bodily labour as he could manage. +There was something stately and utterly removed from all Philip's +previous existence in the forms observed at every day's dinner, when +the twelve bedesmen met in the large quaint hall, and the warden +came in his college-cap and gown to say the long Latin grace which +wound up with something very like a prayer for the soul of Sir Simon +Bray. It took some time to get a reply to ship letters in those +times when no one could exactly say where the fleet might be found. +</P> + +<P> +And before Dr Pennington had received the excellent character of +Stephen Freeman, which his son gladly sent in answer to his father's +inquiries, Philip had become restless and uneasy in the midst of all +this peace and comfort. +</P> + +<P> +Sitting alone over his fire in the long winter evenings, the scenes +of his past life rose before him; his childhood; his aunt Robson's +care of him; his first going to Foster's shop in Monkshaven; +Haytersbank Farm, and the spelling lessons in the bright warm +kitchen there; Kinraid's appearance; the miserable night of the +Corneys' party; the farewell he had witnessed on Monkshaven sands; +the press-gang, and all the long consequences of that act of +concealment; poor Daniel Robson's trial and execution; his own +marriage; his child's birth; and then he came to that last day at +Monkshaven: and he went over and over again the torturing details, +the looks of contempt and anger, the words of loathing indignation, +till he almost brought himself, out of his extreme sympathy with +Sylvia, to believe that he was indeed the wretch she had considered +him to be. +</P> + +<P> +He forgot his own excuses for having acted as he had done; though +these excuses had at one time seemed to him to wear the garb of +reasons. After long thought and bitter memory came some wonder. What +was Sylvia doing now? Where was she? What was his child like—his +child as well as hers? And then he remembered the poor footsore wife +and the little girl she carried in her arms, that was just the age +of Bella; he wished he had noticed that child more, that a clear +vision of it might rise up when he wanted to picture Bella. +</P> + +<P> +One night he had gone round this mill-wheel circle of ideas till he +was weary to the very marrow of his bones. To shake off the +monotonous impression he rose to look for a book amongst the old +tattered volumes, hoping that he might find something that would +sufficiently lay hold of him to change the current of his thoughts. +There was an old volume of <I>Peregrine Pickle</I>; a book of sermons; +half an army list of 1774, and the <I>Seven Champions of Christendom</I>. +Philip took up this last, which he had never seen before. In it he +read how Sir Guy, Earl of Warwick, went to fight the Paynim in his +own country, and was away for seven long years; and when he came +back his own wife Phillis, the countess in her castle, did not know +the poor travel-worn hermit, who came daily to seek his dole of +bread at her hands along with many beggars and much poor. But at +last, when he lay a-dying in his cave in the rock, he sent for her +by a secret sign known but to them twain. And she came with great +speed, for she knew it was her lord who had sent for her; and they +had many sweet and holy words together before he gave up the ghost, +his head lying on her bosom. +</P> + +<P> +The old story known to most people from their childhood was all new +and fresh to Philip. He did not quite believe in the truth of it, +because the fictitious nature of the histories of some of the other +Champions of Christendom was too patent. But he could not help +thinking that this one might be true; and that Guy and Phillis might +have been as real flesh and blood, long, long ago, as he and Sylvia +had even been. The old room, the quiet moonlit quadrangle into which +the cross-barred casement looked, the quaint aspect of everything +that he had seen for weeks and weeks; all this predisposed Philip to +dwell upon the story he had just been reading as a faithful legend +of two lovers whose bones were long since dust. He thought that if +he could thus see Sylvia, himself unknown, unseen—could live at her +gates, so to speak, and gaze upon her and his child—some day too, +when he lay a-dying, he might send for her, and in soft words of +mutual forgiveness breathe his life away in her arms. Or perhaps—and +so he lost himself, and from thinking, passed on to dreaming. +All night long Guy and Phillis, Sylvia and his child, passed in and +out of his visions; it was impossible to make the fragments of his +dreams cohere; but the impression made upon him by them was not the +less strong for this. He felt as if he were called to Monkshaven, +wanted at Monkshaven, and to Monkshaven he resolved to go; although +when his reason overtook his feeling, he knew perfectly how unwise +it was to leave a home of peace and tranquillity and surrounding +friendliness, to go to a place where nothing but want and +wretchedness awaited him unless he made himself known; and if he +did, a deeper want, a more woeful wretchedness, would in all +probability be his portion. +</P> + +<P> +In the small oblong of looking-glass hung against the wall, Philip +caught the reflection of his own face, and laughed scornfully at the +sight. The thin hair lay upon his temples in the flakes that betoken +long ill-health; his eyes were the same as ever, and they had always +been considered the best feature in his face; but they were sunk in +their orbits, and looked hollow and gloomy. As for the lower part of +his face, blackened, contracted, drawn away from his teeth, the +outline entirely changed by the breakage of his jaw-bone, he was +indeed a fool if he thought himself fit to go forth to win back that +love which Sylvia had forsworn. As a hermit and a beggar, he must +return to Monkshaven, and fall perforce into the same position which +Guy of Warwick had only assumed. But still he should see his +Phillis, and might feast his sad hopeless eyes from time to time +with the sight of his child. His small pension of sixpence a day +would keep him from absolute want of necessaries. +</P> + +<P> +So that very day he went to the warden and told him he thought of +giving up his share in the bequest of Sir Simon Bray. Such a +relinquishment had never occurred before in all the warden's +experience; and he was very much inclined to be offended. +</P> + +<P> +'I must say that for a man not to be satisfied as a bedesman of St +Sepulchre's argues a very wrong state of mind, and a very ungrateful +heart.' +</P> + +<P> +'I'm sure, sir, it's not from any ingratitude, for I can hardly feel +thankful to you and to Sir Simon, and to madam, and the young +ladies, and all my comrades in the hospital, and I niver expect to +be either so comfortable or so peaceful again, but——' +</P> + +<P> +'But? What can you have to say against the place, then? Not but what +there are always plenty of applicants for every vacancy; only I +thought I was doing a kindness to a man out of Harry's company. And +you'll not see Harry either; he's got his leave in March!' +</P> + +<P> +'I'm very sorry. I should like to have seen the lieutenant again. +But I cannot rest any longer so far away from—people I once knew.' +</P> + +<P> +'Ten to one they're dead, or removed, or something or other by this +time; and it'll serve you right if they are. Mind! no one can be +chosen twice to be a bedesman of St Sepulchre's.' +</P> + +<P> +The warden turned away; and Philip, uneasy at staying, disheartened +at leaving, went to make his few preparations for setting out once +more on his journey northwards. He had to give notice of his change +of residence to the local distributor of pensions; and one or two +farewells had to be taken, with more than usual sadness at the +necessity; for Philip, under his name of Stephen Freeman, had +attached some of the older bedesmen a good deal to him, from his +unselfishness, his willingness to read to them, and to render them +many little services, and, perhaps, as much as anything, by his +habitual silence, which made him a convenient recipient of all their +garrulousness. So before the time for his departure came, he had the +opportunity of one more interview with the warden, of a more +friendly character than that in which he gave up his bedesmanship. +And so far it was well; and Philip turned his back upon St +Sepulchre's with his sore heart partly healed by his four months' +residence there. +</P> + +<P> +He was stronger, too, in body, more capable of the day-after-day +walks that were required of him. He had saved some money from his +allowance as bedesman and from his pension, and might occasionally +have taken an outside place on a coach, had it not been that he +shrank from the first look of every stranger upon his disfigured +face. Yet the gentle, wistful eyes, and the white and faultless +teeth always did away with the first impression as soon as people +became a little acquainted with his appearance. +</P> + +<P> +It was February when Philip left St Sepulchre's. It was the first +week in April when he began to recognize the familiar objects +between York and Monkshaven. And now he began to hang back, and to +question the wisdom of what he had done—just as the warden had +prophesied that he would. The last night of his two hundred mile +walk he slept at the little inn at which he had been enlisted nearly +two years before. It was by no intention of his that he rested at +that identical place. Night was drawing on; and, in making, as he +thought, a short cut, he had missed his way, and was fain to seek +shelter where he might find it. But it brought him very straight +face to face with his life at that time, and ever since. His mad, +wild hopes—half the result of intoxication, as he now knew—all +dead and gone; the career then freshly opening shut up against him +now; his youthful strength and health changed into premature +infirmity, and the home and the love that should have opened wide +its doors to console him for all, why in two years Death might have +been busy, and taken away from him his last feeble chance of the +faint happiness of seeing his beloved without being seen or known of +her. All that night and all the next day, the fear of Sylvia's +possible death overclouded his heart. It was strange that he had +hardly ever thought of this before; so strange, that now, when the +terror came, it took possession of him, and he could almost have +sworn that she must be lying dead in Monkshaven churchyard. Or was +it little Bella, that blooming, lovely babe, whom he was never to +see again? There was the tolling of mournful bells in the distant +air to his disturbed fancy, and the cry of the happy birds, the +plaintive bleating of the new-dropped lambs, were all omens of evil +import to him. +</P> + +<P> +As well as he could, he found his way back to Monkshaven, over the +wild heights and moors he had crossed on that black day of misery; +why he should have chosen that path he could not tell—it was as if +he were led, and had no free will of his own. +</P> + +<P> +The soft clear evening was drawing on, and his heart beat thick, and +then stopped, only to start again with fresh violence. There he was, +at the top of the long, steep lane that was in some parts a literal +staircase leading down from the hill-top into the High Street, +through the very entry up which he had passed when he shrank away +from his former and his then present life. There he stood, looking +down once more at the numerous irregular roofs, the many stacks of +chimneys below him, seeking out that which had once been his own +dwelling—who dwelt there now? +</P> + +<P> +The yellower gleams grew narrower; the evening shadows broader, and +Philip crept down the lane a weary, woeful man. At every gap in the +close-packed buildings he heard the merry music of a band, the +cheerful sound of excited voices. Still he descended slowly, +scarcely wondering what it could be, for it was not associated in +his mind with the one pervading thought of Sylvia. +</P> + +<P> +When he came to the angle of junction between the lane and the High +Street, he seemed plunged all at once into the very centre of the +bustle, and he drew himself up into a corner of deep shadow, from +whence he could look out upon the street. +</P> + +<P> +A circus was making its grand entry into Monkshaven, with all the +pomp of colour and of noise that it could muster. Trumpeters in +parti-coloured clothes rode first, blaring out triumphant discord. +Next came a gold-and-scarlet chariot drawn by six piebald horses, +and the windings of this team through the tortuous narrow street +were pretty enough to look upon. In the chariot sate kings and +queens, heroes and heroines, or what were meant for such; all the +little boys and girls running alongside of the chariot envied them; +but they themselves were very much tired, and shivering with cold in +their heroic pomp of classic clothing. All this Philip might have +seen; did see, in fact; but heeded not one jot. Almost opposite to +him, not ten yards apart, standing on the raised step at the +well-known shop door, was Sylvia, holding a child, a merry dancing +child, up in her arms to see the show. She too, Sylvia, was laughing +for pleasure, and for sympathy with pleasure. She held the little +Bella aloft that the child might see the gaudy procession the better +and the longer, looking at it herself with red lips apart and white +teeth glancing through; then she turned to speak to some one behind +her—Coulson, as Philip saw the moment afterwards; his answer made +her laugh once again. Philip saw it all; her bonny careless looks, +her pretty matronly form, her evident ease of mind and prosperous +outward circumstances. The years that he had spent in gloomy sorrow, +amongst wild scenes, on land or by sea, his life in frequent peril +of a bloody end, had gone by with her like sunny days; all the more +sunny because he was not there. So bitterly thought the poor +disabled marine, as, weary and despairing, he stood in the cold +shadow and looked upon the home that should have been his haven, the +wife that should have welcomed him, the child that should have been +his comfort. He had banished himself from his home; his wife had +forsworn him; his child was blossoming into intelligence unwitting +of any father. Wife, and child, and home, were all doing well +without him; what madness had tempted him thither? an hour ago, like +a fanciful fool, he had thought she might be dead—dead with sad +penitence for her cruel words at her heart—with mournful wonder at +the unaccounted-for absence of her child's father preying on her +spirits, and in some measure causing the death he had apprehended. +But to look at her there where she stood, it did not seem as if she +had had an hour's painful thought in all her blooming life. +</P> + +<P> +Ay! go in to the warm hearth, mother and child, now the gay +cavalcade has gone out of sight, and the chill of night has +succeeded to the sun's setting. Husband and father, steal out into +the cold dark street, and seek some poor cheap lodging where you may +rest your weary bones, and cheat your more weary heart into +forgetfulness in sleep. The pretty story of the Countess Phillis, +who mourned for her husband's absence so long, is a fable of old +times; or rather say Earl Guy never wedded his wife, knowing that +one she loved better than him was alive all the time she had +believed him to be dead. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap43"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XLIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE UNKNOWN +</H3> + +<P> +A few days before that on which Philip arrived at Monkshaven, Kester +had come to pay Sylvia a visit. As the earliest friend she had, and +also as one who knew the real secrets of her life, Sylvia always +gave him the warm welcome, the cordial words, and the sweet looks in +which the old man delighted. He had a sort of delicacy of his own +which kept him from going to see her too often, even when he was +stationary at Monkshaven; but he looked forward to the times when he +allowed himself this pleasure as a child at school looks forward to +its holidays. The time of his service at Haytersbank had, on the +whole, been the happiest in all his long monotonous years of daily +labour. Sylvia's father had always treated him with the rough +kindness of fellowship; Sylvia's mother had never stinted him in his +meat or grudged him his share of the best that was going; and once, +when he was ill for a few days in the loft above the cow-house, she +had made him possets, and nursed him with the same tenderness which +he remembered his mother showing to him when he was a little child, +but which he had never experienced since then. He had known Sylvia +herself, as bud, and sweet promise of blossom; and just as she was +opening into the full-blown rose, and, if she had been happy and +prosperous, might have passed out of the narrow circle of Kester's +interests, one sorrow after another came down upon her pretty +innocent head, and Kester's period of service to Daniel Robson, her +father, was tragically cut short. All this made Sylvia the great +centre of the faithful herdsman's affection; and Bella, who reminded +him of what Sylvia was when first Kester knew her, only occupied the +second place in his heart, although to the child he was much more +demonstrative of his regard than to the mother. +</P> + +<P> +He had dressed himself in his Sunday best, and although it was only +Thursday, had forestalled his Saturday's shaving; he had provided +himself with a paper of humbugs for the child—'humbugs' being the +north-country term for certain lumps of toffy, well-flavoured with +peppermint—and now he sat in the accustomed chair, as near to the +door as might be, in Sylvia's presence, coaxing the little one, who +was not quite sure of his identity, to come to him, by opening the +paper parcel, and letting its sweet contents be seen. +</P> + +<P> +'She's like thee—and yet she favours her feyther,' said he; and the +moment he had uttered the incautious words he looked up to see how +Sylvia had taken the unpremeditated, unusual reference to her +husband. His stealthy glance did not meet her eye; but though he +thought she had coloured a little, she did not seem offended as he +had feared. It was true that Bella had her father's grave, +thoughtful, dark eyes, instead of her mother's gray ones, out of +which the childlike expression of wonder would never entirely pass +away. And as Bella slowly and half distrustfully made her way +towards the temptation offered her, she looked at Kester with just +her father's look. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia said nothing in direct reply; Kester almost thought she could +not have heard him. But, by-and-by, she said,— +</P> + +<P> +'Yo'll have heared how Kinraid—who's a captain now, and a grand +officer—has gone and got married.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay!' said Kester, in genuine surprise. 'He niver has, for sure!' +</P> + +<P> +'Ay, but he has,' said Sylvia. 'And I'm sure I dunnot see why he +shouldn't.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, well!' said Kester, not looking up at her, for he caught the +inflections in the tones of her voice. 'He were a fine stirrin' +chap, yon; an' he were allays for doin' summut; an' when he fund as +he couldn't ha' one thing as he'd set his mind on, a reckon he +thought he mun put up wi' another.' +</P> + +<P> +'It 'ud be no "putting up,"' said Sylvia. 'She were staying at Bessy +Dawson's, and she come here to see me—she's as pretty a young lady +as yo'd see on a summer's day; and a real lady, too, wi' a fortune. +She didn't speak two words wi'out bringing in her husband's +name,—"the captain", as she called him.' +</P> + +<P> +'An' she come to see thee?' said Kester, cocking his eye at Sylvia +with the old shrewd look. 'That were summut queer, weren't it?' +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia reddened a good deal. +</P> + +<P> +'He's too fause to have spoken to her on me, in t' old way,—as he +used for t' speak to me. I were nought to her but Philip's wife.' +</P> + +<P> +'An' what t' dickins had she to do wi' Philip?' asked Kester, in +intense surprise; and so absorbed in curiosity that he let the +humbugs all fall out of the paper upon the floor, and the little +Bella sat down, plump, in the midst of treasures as great as those +fabled to exist on Tom Tiddler's ground. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia was again silent; but Kester, knowing her well, was sure that +she was struggling to speak, and bided his time without repeating +his question. +</P> + +<P> +'She said—and I think her tale were true, though I cannot get to t' +rights on it, think on it as I will—as Philip saved her husband's +life somewheere nearabouts to Jerusalem. She would have it that t' +captain—for I think I'll niver ca' him Kinraid again—was in a +great battle, and were near upon being shot by t' French, when +Philip—our Philip—come up and went right into t' fire o' t' guns, +and saved her husband's life. And she spoke as if both she and t' +captain were more beholden to Philip than words could tell. And she +come to see me, to try and get news on him. +</P> + +<P> +'It's a queer kind o' story,' said Kester, meditatively. 'A should +ha' thought as Philip were more likely to ha' gi'en him a shove into +t' thick on it, than t' help him out o' t' scrape.' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay!' said Sylvia, suddenly looking straight at Kester; 'yo're out +theere. Philip had a deal o' good in him. And I dunnot think as he'd +ha' gone and married another woman so soon, if he'd been i' +Kinraid's place.' +</P> + +<P> +'An' yo've niver heared on Philip sin' he left?' asked Kester, after +a while. +</P> + +<P> +'Niver; nought but what she told me. And she said that t' captain +made inquiry for him right and left, as soon after that happened as +might be, and could hear niver a word about him. No one had seen +him, or knowed his name.' +</P> + +<P> +'Yo' niver heared of his goin' for t' be a soldier?' persevered +Kester. +</P> + +<P> +'Niver. I've told yo' once. It were unlike Philip to think o' such a +thing.' +</P> + +<P> +'But thou mun ha' been thinkin' on him at times i' a' these years. +Bad as he'd behaved hissel', he were t' feyther o' thy little un. +What did ta think he had been agait on when he left here?' +</P> + +<P> +'I didn't know. I were noane so keen a-thinking on him at first. I +tried to put him out o' my thoughts a'together, for it made me like +mad to think how he'd stood between me and—that other. But I'd +begun to wonder and to wonder about him, and to think I should like +to hear as he were doing well. I reckon I thought he were i' London, +wheere he'd been that time afore, yo' know, and had allays spoke as +if he'd enjoyed hissel' tolerable; and then Molly Brunton told me on +t' other one's marriage; and, somehow, it gave me a shake in my +heart, and I began for to wish I hadn't said all them words i' my +passion; and then that fine young lady come wi' her story—and I've +thought a deal on it since,—and my mind has come out clear. +Philip's dead, and it were his spirit as come to t' other's help in +his time o' need. I've heard feyther say as spirits cannot rest i' +their graves for trying to undo t' wrongs they've done i' their +bodies.' +</P> + +<P> +'Them's my conclusions,' said Kester, solemnly. 'A was fain for to +hear what were yo'r judgments first; but them's the conclusions I +comed to as soon as I heard t' tale.' +</P> + +<P> +'Let alone that one thing,' said Sylvia, 'he were a kind, good man.' +</P> + +<P> +'It were a big deal on a "one thing", though,' said Kester. 'It just +spoilt yo'r life, my poor lass; an' might ha' gone near to spoilin' +Charley Kinraid's too.' +</P> + +<P> +'Men takes a deal more nor women to spoil their lives,' said Sylvia, +bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +'Not a' mak' o' men. I reckon, lass, Philip's life were pretty well +on for bein' spoilt at after he left here; and it were, mebbe, a +good thing he got rid on it so soon.' +</P> + +<P> +'I wish I'd just had a few kind words wi' him, I do,' said Sylvia, +almost on the point of crying. +</P> + +<P> +'Come, lass, it's as ill moanin' after what's past as it 'ud be for +me t' fill my eyes wi' weepin' after t' humbugs as this little wench +o' thine has grubbed up whilst we'n been talkin'. Why, there's not +one on 'em left!' +</P> + +<P> +'She's a sad spoilt little puss!' said Sylvia, holding out her arms +to the child, who ran into them, and began patting her mother's +cheeks, and pulling at the soft brown curls tucked away beneath the +matronly cap. 'Mammy spoils her, and Hester spoils her——' +</P> + +<P> +'Granny Rose doesn't spoil me,' said the child, with quick, +intelligent discrimination, interrupting her mother's list. +</P> + +<P> +'No; but Jeremiah Foster does above a bit. He'll come in fro' t' +Bank, Kester, and ask for her, a'most ivery day. And he'll bring her +things in his pocket; and she's so fause, she allays goes straight +to peep in, and then he shifts t' apple or t' toy into another. Eh! +but she's a little fause one,'—half devouring the child with her +kisses. 'And he comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goes +as slow as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace wi' Bella's +steps. I often run upstairs and watch 'em out o' t' window; he +doesn't care to have me with 'em, he's so fain t' have t' child all +to hisself.' +</P> + +<P> +'She's a bonny un, for sure,' said Kester; 'but not so pretty as +thou was, Sylvie. A've niver tell'd thee what a come for tho', and +it's about time for me t' be goin'. A'm off to t' Cheviots to-morrow +morn t' fetch home some sheep as Jonas Blundell has purchased. It'll +be a job o' better nor two months a reckon.' +</P> + +<P> +'It'll be a nice time o' year,' said Sylvia, a little surprised at +Kester's evident discouragement at the prospect of the journey or +absence; he had often been away from Monkshaven for a longer time +without seeming to care so much about it. +</P> + +<P> +'Well, yo' see it's a bit hard upon me for t' leave my sister—she +as is t' widow-woman, wheere a put up when a'm at home. Things is +main an' dear; four-pound loaves is at sixteenpence; an' there's a +deal o' talk on a famine i' t' land; an' whaten a paid for my +victual an' t' bed i' t' lean-to helped t' oud woman a bit,—an' +she's sadly down i' t' mouth, for she cannot hear on a lodger for t' +tak' my place, for a' she's moved o'er to t' other side o' t' bridge +for t' be nearer t' new buildings, an' t' grand new walk they're +makin' round t' cliffs, thinkin' she'd be likelier t' pick up a +labourer as would be glad on a bed near his work. A'd ha' liked to +ha' set her agait wi' a 'sponsible lodger afore a'd ha' left, for +she's just so soft-hearted, any scamp may put upon her if he nobbut +gets houd on her blind side.' +</P> + +<P> +'Can I help her?' said Sylvia, in her eager way. 'I should be so +glad; and I've a deal of money by me—-' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay, my lass,' said Kester, 'thou munnot go off so fast; it were +just what I were feared on i' tellin' thee. I've left her a bit o' +money, and I'll mak' shift to send her more; it's just a kind word, +t' keep up her heart when I'm gone, as I want. If thou'd step in and +see her fra' time to time, and cheer her up a bit wi' talkin' to her +on me, I'd tak' it very kind, and I'd go off wi' a lighter heart.' +</P> + +<P> +'Then I'm sure I'll do it for yo', Kester. I niver justly feel like +mysel' when yo're away, for I'm lonesome enough at times. She and I +will talk a' t' better about yo' for both on us grieving after yo'.' +</P> + +<P> +So Kester took his leave, his mind set at ease by Sylvia's promise +to go and see his sister pretty often during his absence in the +North. +</P> + +<P> +But Sylvia's habits were changed since she, as a girl at +Haytersbank, liked to spend half her time in the open air, running +out perpetually without anything on to scatter crumbs to the +poultry, or to take a piece of bread to the old cart-horse, to go up +to the garden for a handful of herbs, or to clamber to the highest +point around to blow the horn which summoned her father and Kester +home to dinner. Living in a town where it was necessary to put on +hat and cloak before going out into the street, and then to walk in +a steady and decorous fashion, she had only cared to escape down to +the freedom of the sea-shore until Philip went away; and after that +time she had learnt so to fear observation as a deserted wife, that +nothing but Bella's health would have been a sufficient motive to +take her out of doors. And, as she had told Kester, the necessity of +giving the little girl a daily walk was very much lightened by the +great love and affection which Jeremiah Foster now bore to the +child. Ever since the day when the baby had come to his knee, +allured by the temptation of his watch, he had apparently considered +her as in some sort belonging to him; and now he had almost come to +think that he had a right to claim her as his companion in his walk +back from the Bank to his early dinner, where a high chair was +always placed ready for the chance of her coming to share his meal. +On these occasions he generally brought her back to the shop-door +when he returned to his afternoon's work at the Bank. Sometimes, +however, he would leave word that she was to be sent for from his +house in the New Town, as his business at the Bank for that day was +ended. Then Sylvia was compelled to put on her things, and fetch +back her darling; and excepting for this errand she seldom went out +at all on week-days. +</P> + +<P> +About a fortnight after Kester's farewell call, this need for her +visit to Jeremiah Foster's arose; and it seemed to Sylvia that there +could not be a better opportunity of fulfilling her promise and +going to see the widow Dobson, whose cottage was on the other side +of the river, low down on the cliff-side, just at the bend and rush +of the full stream into the open sea. She set off pretty early in +order to go there first. She found the widow with her house-place +tidied up after the midday meal, and busy knitting at the open +door—not looking at her rapid-clicking needles, but gazing at the +rush and recession of the waves before her; yet not seeing them +either,—rather seeing days long past. +</P> + +<P> +She started into active civility as soon as she recognized Sylvia, +who was to her as a great lady, never having known Sylvia Robson in +her wild childish days. Widow Dobson was always a little scandalized +at her brother Christopher's familiarity with Mrs. Hepburn. +</P> + +<P> +She dusted a chair which needed no dusting, and placed it for +Sylvia, sitting down herself on a three-legged stool to mark her +sense of the difference in their conditions, for there was another +chair or two in the humble dwelling; and then the two fell into +talk—first about Kester, whom his sister would persist in calling +Christopher, as if his dignity as her elder brother was compromised +by any familiar abbreviation; and by-and-by she opened her heart a +little more. +</P> + +<P> +'A could wish as a'd learned write-of-hand,' said she; 'for a've +that for to tell Christopher as might set his mind at ease. But yo' +see, if a wrote him a letter he couldn't read it; so a just comfort +mysel' wi' thinkin' nobody need learn writin' unless they'n got +friends as can read. But a reckon he'd ha' been glad to hear as a've +getten a lodger.' Here she nodded her head in the direction of the +door opening out of the house-place into the 'lean-to', which Sylvia +had observed on drawing near the cottage, and the recollection of +the mention of which by Kester had enabled her to identify widow +Dobson's dwelling. 'He's a-bed yonder,' the latter continued, +dropping her voice. 'He's a queer-lookin' tyke, but a don't think as +he's a bad un.' +</P> + +<P> +'When did he come?' said Sylvia, remembering Kester's account of his +sister's character, and feeling as though it behoved her, as +Kester's confidante on this head, to give cautious and prudent +advice. +</P> + +<P> +'Eh! a matter of a s'ennight ago. A'm noane good at mindin' time; +he's paid me his rent twice, but then he were keen to pay aforehand. +He'd comed in one night, an' sate him down afore he could speak, he +were so done up; he'd been on tramp this many a day, a reckon. "Can +yo' give me a bed?" says he, panting like, after a bit. "A chap as a +met near here says as yo've a lodging for t' let." "Ay," says a, "a +ha' that; but yo' mun pay me a shilling a week for 't." Then my mind +misgive me, for a thought he hadn't a shilling i' t' world, an' yet +if he hadn't, a should just ha' gi'en him t' bed a' t' same: a'm not +one as can turn a dog out if he comes t' me wearied o' his life. So +he outs wi' a shillin', an' lays it down on t' table, 'bout a word. +"A'll not trouble yo' long," says he. "A'm one as is best out o' t' +world," he says. Then a thought as a'd been a bit hard upon him. An' +says I, "A'm a widow-woman, and one as has getten but few friends:" +for yo' see a were low about our Christopher's goin' away north; "so +a'm forced-like to speak hard to folk; but a've made mysel' some +stirabout for my supper; and if yo'd like t' share an' share about +wi' me, it's but puttin' a sup more watter to 't, and God's blessing +'ll be on 't, just as same as if 't were meal." So he ups wi' his +hand afore his e'en, and says not a word. At last he says, "Missus," +says he, "can God's blessing be shared by a sinner—one o' t' +devil's children?" says he. "For the Scriptur' says he's t' father +o' lies." So a were puzzled-like; an' at length a says, "Thou mun +ask t' parson that; a'm but a poor faint-hearted widow-woman; but +a've allays had God's blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an' a'll +share it wi' thee as far as my will goes." So he raxes his hand +across t' table, an' mutters summat, as he grips mine. A thought it +were Scriptur' as he said, but a'd needed a' my strength just then +for t' lift t' pot off t' fire—it were t' first vittle a'd tasted +sin' morn, for t' famine comes down like stones on t' head o' us +poor folk: an' a' a said were just "Coom along, chap, an' fa' to; +an' God's blessing be on him as eats most." An' sin' that day him +and me's been as thick as thieves, only he's niver telled me nought +of who he is, or wheere he comes fra'. But a think he's one o' them +poor colliers, as has getten brunt i' t' coal-pits; for, t' be sure, +his face is a' black wi' fire-marks; an' o' late days he's ta'en t' +his bed, an' just lies there sighing,—for one can hear him plain as +dayleet thro' t' bit partition wa'.' +</P> + +<P> +As a proof of this, a sigh—almost a groan—startled the two women +at this very moment. +</P> + +<P> +'Poor fellow!' said Sylvia, in a soft whisper. 'There's more sore +hearts i' t' world than one reckons for!' But after a while, she +bethought her again of Kester's account of his sister's 'softness'; +and she thought that it behoved her to give some good advice. So she +added, in a sterner, harder tone—'Still, yo' say yo' know nought +about him; and tramps is tramps a' t' world over; and yo're a widow, +and it behoves yo' to be careful. I think I'd just send him off as +soon as he's a bit rested. Yo' say he's plenty o' money?' +</P> + +<P> +'Nay! A never said that. A know nought about it. He pays me +aforehand; an' he pays me down for whativer a've getten for him; but +that's but little; he's noane up t' his vittle, though a've made him +some broth as good as a could make 'em.' +</P> + +<P> +'I wouldn't send him away till he was well again, if I were yo; but +I think yo'd be better rid on him,' said Sylvia. 'It would be +different if yo'r brother were in Monkshaven.' As she spoke she rose +to go. +</P> + +<P> +Widow Dobson held her hand in hers for a minute, then the humble +woman said,— +</P> + +<P> +'Yo'll noane be vexed wi' me, missus, if a cannot find i' my heart +t' turn him out till he wants to go hissel'? For a wouldn't like to +vex yo', for Christopher's sake; but a know what it is for t' feel +for friendless folk, an' choose what may come on it, I cannot send +him away.' +</P> + +<P> +'No!' said Sylvia. 'Why should I be vexed? it's no business o' mine. +Only I should send him away if I was yo'. He might go lodge wheere +there was men-folk, who know t' ways o' tramps, and are up to them.' +</P> + +<P> +Into the sunshine went Sylvia. In the cold shadow the miserable +tramp lay sighing. She did not know that she had been so near to him +towards whom her heart was softening, day by day. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap44"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XLIV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FIRST WORDS +</H3> + +<P> +It was the spring of 1800. Old people yet can tell of the hard +famine of that year. The harvest of the autumn before had failed; +the war and the corn laws had brought the price of corn up to a +famine rate; and much of what came into the market was unsound, and +consequently unfit for food, yet hungry creatures bought it eagerly, +and tried to cheat disease by mixing the damp, sweet, clammy flour +with rice or potato meal. Rich families denied themselves pastry and +all unnecessary and luxurious uses of wheat in any shape; the duty +on hair-powder was increased; and all these palliatives were but as +drops in the ocean of the great want of the people. +</P> + +<P> +Philip, in spite of himself, recovered and grew stronger; and as he +grew stronger hunger took the place of loathing dislike to food. But +his money was all spent; and what was his poor pension of sixpence a +day in that terrible year of famine? Many a summer's night he walked +for hours and hours round the house which once was his, which might +be his now, with all its homely, blessed comforts, could he but go +and assert his right to it. But to go with authority, and in his +poor, maimed guise assert that right, he had need be other than +Philip Hepburn. So he stood in the old shelter of the steep, crooked +lane opening on to the hill out of the market-place, and watched the +soft fading of the summer's eve into night; the closing of the once +familiar shop; the exit of good, comfortable William Coulson, going +to his own home, his own wife, his comfortable, plentiful supper. +Then Philip—there were no police in those days, and scarcely an old +watchman in that primitive little town—would go round on the shady +sides of streets, and, quickly glancing about him, cross the bridge, +looking on the quiet, rippling stream, the gray shimmer foretelling +the coming dawn over the sea, the black masts and rigging of the +still vessels against the sky; he could see with his wistful, eager +eyes the shape of the windows—the window of the very room in which +his wife and child slept, unheeding of him, the hungry, +broken-hearted outcast. He would go back to his lodging, and softly +lift the latch of the door; still more softly, but never without an +unspoken, grateful prayer, pass by the poor sleeping woman who had +given him a shelter and her share of God's blessing—she who, like +him, knew not the feeling of satisfied hunger; and then he laid him +down on the narrow pallet in the lean-to, and again gave Sylvia +happy lessons in the kitchen at Haytersbank, and the dead were +alive; and Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, had never come to +trouble the hopeful, gentle peace. +</P> + +<P> +For widow Dobson had never taken Sylvia's advice. The tramp known to +her by the name of Freeman—that in which he received his +pension—lodged with her still, and paid his meagre shilling in +advance, weekly. A shilling was meagre in those hard days of +scarcity. A hungry man might easily eat the produce of a shilling in +a day. +</P> + +<P> +Widow Dobson pleaded this to Sylvia as an excuse for keeping her +lodger on; to a more calculating head it might have seemed a reason +for sending him away. +</P> + +<P> +'Yo' see, missus,' said she, apologetically, to Sylvia, one evening, +as the latter called upon the poor widow before going to fetch +little Bella (it was now too hot for the child to cross the bridge +in the full heat of the summer sun, and Jeremiah would take her up +to her supper instead)—'Yo' see, missus, there's not a many as 'ud +take him in for a shillin' when it goes so little way; or if they +did, they'd take it out on him some other way, an' he's not getten +much else, a reckon. He ca's me granny, but a'm vast mista'en if +he's ten year younger nor me; but he's getten a fine appetite of his +own, choose how young he may be; an' a can see as he could eat a +deal more nor he's getten money to buy, an' it's few as can mak' +victual go farther nor me. Eh, missus, but yo' may trust me a'll +send him off when times is better; but just now it would be sendin' +him to his death; for a ha' plenty and to spare, thanks be to God +an' yo'r bonny face.' +</P> + +<P> +So Sylvia had to be content with the knowledge that the money she +gladly gave to Kester's sister went partly to feed the lodger who +was neither labourer nor neighbour, but only just a tramp, who, she +feared, was preying on the good old woman. Still the cruel famine +cut sharp enough to penetrate all hearts; and Sylvia, an hour after +the conversation recorded above, was much touched, on her return +from Jeremiah Foster's with the little merry, chattering Bella, at +seeing the feeble steps of one, whom she knew by description must be +widow Dobson's lodger, turn up from the newly-cut road which was to +lead to the terrace walk around the North Cliff, a road which led to +no dwelling but widow Dobson's. Tramp, and vagrant, he might be in +the eyes of the law; but, whatever his character, Sylvia could see +him before her in the soft dusk, creeping along, over the bridge, +often stopping to rest and hold by some support, and then going on +again towards the town, to which she and happy little Bella were +wending. +</P> + +<P> +A thought came over her: she had always fancied that this unknown +man was some fierce vagabond, and had dreaded lest in the lonely bit +of road between widow Dobson's cottage and the peopled highway, he +should fall upon her and rob her if he learnt that she had money +with her; and several times she had gone away without leaving the +little gift she had intended, because she imagined that she had seen +the door of the small chamber in the 'lean-to' open softly while she +was there, as if the occupant (whom widow Dobson spoke of as never +leaving the house before dusk, excepting once a week) were listening +for the chink of the coin in her little leathern purse. Now that she +saw him walking before her with heavy languid steps, this fear gave +place to pity; she remembered her mother's gentle superstition which +had prevented her from ever sending the hungry empty away, for fear +lest she herself should come to need bread. +</P> + +<P> +'Lassie,' said she to little Bella, who held a cake which Jeremiah's +housekeeper had given her tight in her hand, 'yon poor man theere is +hungry; will Bella give him her cake, and mother will make her +another to-morrow twice as big?' +</P> + +<P> +For this consideration, and with the feeling of satisfaction which a +good supper not an hour ago gives even to the hungry stomach of a +child of three years old, Bella, after some thought, graciously +assented to the sacrifice. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia stopped, the cake in her hand, and turned her back to the +town, and to the slow wayfarer in front. Under the cover of her +shawl she slipped a half-crown deep into the crumb of the cake, and +then restoring it to little Bella, she gave her her directions. +</P> + +<P> +'Mammy will carry Bella; and when Bella goes past the poor man, she +shall give him the cake over mammy's shoulder. Poor man is so +hungry; and Bella and mammy have plenty to eat, and to spare.' +</P> + +<P> +The child's heart was touched by the idea of hunger, and her little +arm was outstretched ready for the moment her mother's hurried steps +took her brushing past the startled, trembling Philip. +</P> + +<P> +'Poor man, eat this; Bella not hungry.' +</P> + +<P> +They were the first words he had ever heard his child utter. The +echoes of them rang in his ears as he stood endeavouring to hide his +disfigured face by looking over the parapet of the bridge down upon +the stream running away towards the ocean, into which his hot tears +slowly fell, unheeded by the weeper. Then he changed the intention +with which he had set out upon his nightly walk, and turned back to +his lodging. +</P> + +<P> +Of course the case was different with Sylvia; she would have +forgotten the whole affair very speedily, if it had not been for +little Bella's frequent recurrence to the story of the hungry man, +which had touched her small sympathies with the sense of an +intelligible misfortune. She liked to act the dropping of the bun +into the poor man's hand as she went past him, and would take up any +article near her in order to illustrate the gesture she had used. +One day she got hold of Hester's watch for this purpose, as being of +the same round shape as the cake; and though Hester, for whose +benefit the child was repeating the story in her broken language for +the third or fourth time, tried to catch the watch as it was +intended that she should (she being the representative of the +'hungry man' for the time being), it went to the ground with a smash +that frightened the little girl, and she began to cry at the +mischief she had done. +</P> + +<P> +'Don't cry, Bella,' said Hester. 'Niver play with watches again. I +didn't see thee at mine, or I'd ha' stopped thee in time. But I'll +take it to old Darley's on th' quay-side, and maybe he'll soon set +it to rights again. Only Bella must niver play with watches again.' +</P> + +<P> +'Niver no more!' promised the little sobbing child. And that evening +Hester took her watch down to old Darley's. +</P> + +<P> +This William Darley was the brother of the gardener at the rectory; +the uncle to the sailor who had been shot by the press-gang years +before, and to his bed-ridden sister. He was a clever mechanician, +and his skill as a repairer of watches and chronometers was great +among the sailors, with whom he did a very irregular sort of +traffic, conducted, often without much use of money, but rather on +the principle of barter, they bringing him foreign coins and odd +curiosities picked up on their travels in exchange for his services +to their nautical instruments or their watches. If he had ever had +capital to extend his business, he might have been a rich man; but +it is to be doubted whether he would have been as happy as he was +now in his queer little habitation of two rooms, the front one being +both shop and workshop, the other serving the double purpose of +bedroom and museum. +</P> + +<P> +The skill of this odd-tempered, shabby old man was sometimes sought +by the jeweller who kept the more ostentatious shop in the High +Street; but before Darley would undertake any 'tickle' piece of +delicate workmanship for the other, he sneered at his ignorance, and +taunted and abused him well. Yet he had soft places in his heart, +and Hester Rose had found her way to one by her patient, enduring +kindness to his bed-ridden niece. He never snarled at her as he did +at too many; and on the few occasions when she had asked him to do +anything for her, he had seemed as if she were conferring the favour +on him, not he on her, and only made the smallest possible charge. +</P> + +<P> +She found him now sitting where he could catch the most light for +his work, spectacles on nose, and microscope in hand. +</P> + +<P> +He took her watch, and examined it carefully without a word in reply +to her. Then he began to open it and take it to pieces, in order to +ascertain the nature of the mischief. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly he heard her catch her breath with a checked sound of +surprise. He looked at her from above his spectacles; she was +holding a watch in her hand which she had just taken up off the +counter. +</P> + +<P> +'What's amiss wi' thee now?' said Darley. 'Hast ta niver seen a +watch o' that mak' afore? or is it them letters on t' back, as is so +wonderful?' +</P> + +<P> +Yes, it was those letters—that interlaced, old-fashioned cipher. +That Z. H. that she knew of old stood for Zachary Hepburn, Philip's +father. She knew how Philip valued this watch. She remembered having +seen it in his hands the very day before his disappearance, when he +was looking at the time in his annoyance at Sylvia's detention in +her walk with baby. Hester had no doubt that he had taken this watch +as a matter of course away with him. She felt sure that he would not +part with this relic of his dead father on any slight necessity. +Where, then, was Philip?—by what chance of life or death had this, +his valued property, found its way once more to Monkshaven? +</P> + +<P> +'Where did yo' get this?' she asked, in as quiet a manner as she +could assume, sick with eagerness as she was. +</P> + +<P> +To no one else would Darley have answered such a question. He made a +mystery of most of his dealings; not that he had anything to +conceal, but simply because he delighted in concealment. He took it +out of her hands, looked at the number marked inside, and the +maker's name—'Natteau Gent, York'—and then replied,— +</P> + +<P> +'A man brought it me yesterday, at nightfall, for t' sell it. It's a +matter o' forty years old. Natteau Gent has been dead and in his +grave pretty nigh as long as that. But he did his work well when he +were alive; and so I gave him as brought it for t' sell about as +much as it were worth, i' good coin. A tried him first i' t' +bartering line, but he wouldn't bite; like enough he wanted +food,—many a one does now-a-days.' +</P> + +<P> +'Who was he?' gasped Hester. +</P> + +<P> +'Bless t' woman! how should I know?' +</P> + +<P> +'What was he like?—how old?—tell me.' +</P> + +<P> +'My lass, a've summut else to do wi' my eyes than go peering into +men's faces i' t' dusk light.' +</P> + +<P> +'But yo' must have had light for t' judge about the watch.' +</P> + +<P> +'Eh! how sharp we are! A'd a candle close to my nose. But a didn't +tak' it up for to gaze int' his face. That wouldn't be manners, to +my thinking.' +</P> + +<P> +Hester was silent. Then Darley's heart relented. +</P> + +<P> +'If yo're so set upo' knowing who t' fellow was, a could, mebbe, put +yo' on his tracks.' +</P> + +<P> +'How?' said Hester, eagerly. 'I do want to know. I want to know very +much, and for a good reason.' +</P> + +<P> +'Well, then, a'll tell yo'. He's a queer tyke, that one is. A'll be +bound he were sore pressed for t' brass; yet he out's wi' a good +half-crown, all wrapped up i' paper, and he axes me t' make a hole +in it. Says I, "It's marring good king's coin, at after a've made a +hole in't, it'll never pass current again." So he mumbles, and +mumbles, but for a' that it must needs be done; and he's left it +here, and is t' call for 't to-morrow at e'en.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, William Darley!' said Hester, clasping her hands tight +together. 'Find out who he is, where he is—anything—everything +about him—and I will so bless yo'.' +</P> + +<P> +Darley looked at her sharply, but with some signs of sympathy on his +grave face. 'My woman,' he said 'a could ha' wished as you'd niver +seen t' watch. It's poor, thankless work thinking too much on one o' +God's creatures. But a'll do thy bidding,' he continued, in a +lighter and different tone. 'A'm a 'cute old badger when need be. +Come for thy watch in a couple o' days, and a'll tell yo' all as +a've learnt.' +</P> + +<P> +So Hester went away, her heart beating with the promise of knowing +something about Philip,—how much, how little, in these first +moments, she dared not say even to herself. Some sailor newly landed +from distant seas might have become possessed of Philip's watch in +far-off latitudes; in which case, Philip would be dead. That might +be. She tried to think that this was the most probable way of +accounting for the watch. She could be certain as to the positive +identity of the watch—being in William Darley's possession. Again, +it might be that Philip himself was near at hand—was here in this +very place—starving, as too many were, for insufficiency of means +to buy the high-priced food. And then her heart burnt within her as +she thought of the succulent, comfortable meals which Sylvia +provided every day—nay, three times a day—for the household in the +market-place, at the head of which Philip ought to have been; but +his place knew him not. For Sylvia had inherited her mother's talent +for housekeeping, and on her, in Alice's decrepitude and Hester's +other occupations in the shop, devolved the cares of due provision +for the somewhat heterogeneous family. +</P> + +<P> +And Sylvia! Hester groaned in heart over the remembrance of Sylvia's +words, 'I can niver forgive him the wrong he did to me,' that night +when Hester had come, and clung to her, making the sad, shameful +confession of her unreturned love. +</P> + +<P> +What could ever bring these two together again? Could Hester +herself—ignorant of the strange mystery of Sylvia's heart, as those +who are guided solely by obedience to principle must ever be of the +clue to the actions of those who are led by the passionate ebb and +flow of impulse? Could Hester herself? Oh! how should she speak, how +should she act, if Philip were near—if Philip were sad and in +miserable estate? Her own misery at this contemplation of the case +was too great to bear; and she sought her usual refuge in the +thought of some text, some promise of Scripture, which should +strengthen her faith. +</P> + +<P> +'With God all things are possible,' said she, repeating the words as +though to lull her anxiety to rest. +</P> + +<P> +Yes; with God all things are possible. But ofttimes He does his work +with awful instruments. There is a peacemaker whose name is Death. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap45"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XLV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SAVED AND LOST +</H3> + +<P> +Hester went out on the evening of the day after that on which the +unknown owner of the half-crown had appointed to call for it again +at William Darley's. She had schooled herself to believe that time +and patience would serve her best. Her plan was to obtain all the +knowledge about Philip that she could in the first instance; and +then, if circumstances allowed it, as in all probability they would, +to let drop by drop of healing, peacemaking words and thoughts fall +on Sylvia's obdurate, unforgiving heart. So Hester put on her +things, and went out down towards the old quay-side on that evening +after the shop was closed. +</P> + +<P> +Poor little Sylvia! She was unforgiving, but not obdurate to the full +extent of what Hester believed. Many a time since Philip went away +had she unconsciously missed his protecting love; when folks spoke +shortly to her, when Alice scolded her as one of the non-elect, when +Hester's gentle gravity had something of severity in it; when her +own heart failed her as to whether her mother would have judged that +she had done well, could that mother have known all, as possibly she +did by this time. Philip had never spoken otherwise than tenderly to +her during the eighteen months of their married life, except on the +two occasions before recorded: once when she referred to her dream +of Kinraid's possible return, and once again on the evening of the +day before her discovery of his concealment of the secret of +Kinraid's involuntary disappearance. +</P> + +<P> +After she had learnt that Kinraid was married, her heart had still +more strongly turned to Philip; she thought that he had judged +rightly in what he had given as the excuse for his double dealing; +she was even more indignant at Kinraid's fickleness than she had any +reason to be; and she began to learn the value of such enduring love +as Philip's had been—lasting ever since the days when she first +began to fancy what a man's love for a woman should be, when she had +first shrunk from the tone of tenderness he put into his especial +term for her, a girl of twelve—'Little lassie,' as he was wont to +call her. +</P> + +<P> +But across all this relenting came the shadow of her vow—like the +chill of a great cloud passing over a sunny plain. How should she +decide? what would be her duty, if he came again, and once more +called her 'wife'? She shrank from such a possibility with all the +weakness and superstition of her nature; and this it was which made +her strengthen herself with the re-utterance of unforgiving words; +and shun all recurrence to the subject on the rare occasion when +Hester had tried to bring it back, with a hope of softening the +heart which to her appeared altogether hardened on this one point. +</P> + +<P> +Now, on this bright summer evening, while Hester had gone down to +the quay-side, Sylvia stood with her out-of-door things on in the +parlour, rather impatiently watching the sky, full of hurrying +clouds, and flushing with the warm tints of the approaching sunset. +She could not leave Alice: the old woman had grown so infirm that +she was never left by her daughter and Sylvia at the same time; yet +Sylvia had to fetch her little girl from the New Town, where she had +been to her supper at Jeremiah Foster's. Hester had said that she +should not be away more than a quarter of an hour; and Hester was +generally so punctual that any failure of hers, in this respect, +appeared almost in the light of an injury on those who had learnt to +rely upon her. Sylvia wanted to go and see widow Dobson, and learn +when Kester might be expected home. His two months were long past; +and Sylvia had heard through the Fosters of some suitable and +profitable employment for him, of which she thought he would be glad +to know as soon as possible. It was now some time since she had been +able to get so far as across the bridge; and, for aught she knew, +Kester might already be come back from his expedition to the +Cheviots. Kester was come back. Scarce five minutes had elapsed +after these thoughts had passed through her mind before his hasty +hand lifted the latch of the kitchen-door, his hurried steps brought +him face to face with her. The smile of greeting was arrested on her +lips by one look at him: his eyes staring wide, the expression on +his face wild, and yet pitiful. +</P> + +<P> +'That's reet,' said he, seeing that her things were already on. +'Thou're wanted sore. Come along.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh! dear God! my child!' cried Sylvia, clutching at the chair near +her; but recovering her eddying senses with the strong fact before +her that whatever the terror was, she was needed to combat it. +</P> + +<P> +'Ay; thy child!' said Kester, taking her almost roughly by the arm, +and drawing her away with him out through the open doors on to the +quay-side. +</P> + +<P> +'Tell me!' said Sylvia, faintly, 'is she dead?' +</P> + +<P> +'She's safe now,' said Kester. 'It's not her—it's him as saved her +as needs yo', if iver husband needed a wife.' +</P> + +<P> +'He?—who? O Philip! Philip! is it yo' at last?' +</P> + +<P> +Unheeding what spectators might see her movements, she threw up her +arms and staggered against the parapet of the bridge they were then +crossing. +</P> + +<P> +'He!—Philip!—saved Bella? Bella, our little Bella, as got her +dinner by my side, and went out wi' Jeremiah, as well as could be. I +cannot take it in; tell me, Kester.' She kept trembling so much in +voice and in body, that he saw she could not stir without danger of +falling until she was calmed; as it was, her eyes became filmy from +time to time, and she drew her breath in great heavy pants, leaning +all the while against the wall of the bridge. +</P> + +<P> +'It were no illness,' Kester began. 'T' little un had gone for a +walk wi' Jeremiah Foster, an' he were drawn for to go round t' edge +o' t' cliff, wheere they's makin' t' new walk reet o'er t' sea. But +it's but a bit on a pathway now; an' t' one was too oud, an' t' +other too young for t' see t' water comin' along wi' great leaps; +it's allays for comin' high up again' t' cliff, an' this spring-tide +it's comin' in i' terrible big waves. Some one said as they passed +t' man a-sittin' on a bit on a rock up above—a dunnot know, a only +know as a heared a great fearful screech i' t' air. A were just +a-restin' me at after a'd comed in, not half an hour i' t' place. +A've walked better nor a dozen mile to-day; an' a ran out, an' a +looked, an' just on t' walk, at t' turn, was t' swish of a wave +runnin' back as quick as t' mischief int' t' sea, an' oud Jeremiah +standin' like one crazy, lookin' o'er int' t' watter; an' like a +stroke o' leeghtnin' comes a man, an' int' t' very midst o' t' great +waves like a shot; an' then a knowed summut were in t' watter as +were nearer death than life; an' a seemed to misdoubt me that it +were our Bella; an' a shouts an' a cries for help, an' a goes mysel' +to t' very edge o' t' cliff, an' a bids oud Jeremiah, as was like +one beside hissel', houd tight on me, for he were good for nought +else; an' a bides my time, an' when a sees two arms houdin' out a +little drippin' streamin' child, a clutches her by her waist-band, +an' hauls her to land. She's noane t' worse for her bath, a'll be +bound.' +</P> + +<P> +'I mun go—let me,' said Sylvia, struggling with his detaining hand, +which he had laid upon her in the fear that she would slip down to +the ground in a faint, so ashen-gray was her face. 'Let me,—Bella, +I mun go see her.' +</P> + +<P> +He let go, and she stood still, suddenly feeling herself too weak to +stir. +</P> + +<P> +'Now, if you'll try a bit to be quiet, a'll lead yo' along; but yo' +mun be a steady and brave lass.' +</P> + +<P> +'I'll be aught if yo' only let me see Bella,' said Sylvia, humbly. +</P> + +<P> +'An' yo' niver ax at after him as saved her,' said Kester, +reproachfully. +</P> + +<P> +'I know it's Philip,' she whispered, 'and yo' said he wanted me; so +I know he's safe; and, Kester, I think I'm 'feared on him, and I'd +like to gather courage afore seeing him, and a look at Bella would +give me courage. It were a terrible time when I saw him last, and I +did say—' +</P> + +<P> +'Niver think on what thou did say; think on what thou will say to +him now, for he lies a-dyin'! He were dashed again t' cliff an' +bruised sore in his innards afore t' men as come wi' a boat could +pick him up.' +</P> + +<P> +She did not speak; she did not even tremble now; she set her teeth +together, and, holding tight by Kester, she urged him on; but when +they came to the end of the bridge, she seemed uncertain which way +to turn. +</P> + +<P> +'This way,' said Kester. 'He's been lodgin' wi' Sally this nine +week, an' niver a one about t' place as knowed him; he's been i' t' +wars an' getten his face brunt.' +</P> + +<P> +'And he was short o' food,' moaned Sylvia, 'and we had plenty, and I +tried to make yo'r sister turn him out, and send him away. Oh! will +God iver forgive me?' +</P> + +<P> +Muttering to herself, breaking her mutterings with sharp cries of +pain, Sylvia, with Kester's help, reached widow Dobson's house. It +was no longer a quiet, lonely dwelling. Several sailors stood about +the door, awaiting, in silent anxiety, for the verdict of the +doctor, who was even now examining Philip's injuries. Two or three +women stood talking eagerly, in low voices, in the doorway. +</P> + +<P> +But when Sylvia drew near the men fell back; and the women moved +aside as though to allow her to pass, all looking upon her with a +certain amount of sympathy, but perhaps with rather more of +antagonistic wonder as to how she was taking it—she who had been +living in ease and comfort while her husband's shelter was little +better than a hovel, her husband's daily life a struggle with +starvation; for so much of the lodger at widow Dobson's was +popularly known; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a tramp +was quite forgotten now. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia felt the hardness of their looks, the hardness of their +silence; but it was as nothing to her. If such things could have +touched her at this moment, she would not have stood still right in +the midst of their averted hearts, and murmured something to Kester. +He could not hear the words uttered by that hoarse choked voice, +until he had stooped down and brought his ear to the level of her +mouth. +</P> + +<P> +'We'd better wait for t' doctors to come out,' she said again. She +stood by the door, shivering all over, almost facing the people in +the road, but with her face turned a little to the right, so that +they thought she was looking at the pathway on the cliff-side, a +hundred yards or so distant, below which the hungry waves still +lashed themselves into high ascending spray; while nearer to the +cottage, where their force was broken by the bar at the entrance to +the river, they came softly lapping up the shelving shore. +</P> + +<P> +Sylvia saw nothing of all this, though it was straight before her +eyes. She only saw a blurred mist; she heard no sound of waters, +though it filled the ears of those around. Instead she heard low +whispers pronouncing Philip's earthly doom. +</P> + +<P> +For the doctors were both agreed; his internal injury was of a +mortal kind, although, as the spine was severely injured above the +seat of the fatal bruise, he had no pain in the lower half of his +body. +</P> + +<P> +They had spoken in so low a tone that John Foster, standing only a +foot or so away, had not been able to hear their words. But Sylvia +heard each syllable there where she stood outside, shivering all +over in the sultry summer evening. She turned round to Kester. +</P> + +<P> +'I mun go to him, Kester; thou'll see that noane come in to us, when +t' doctors come out.' +</P> + +<P> +She spoke in a soft, calm voice; and he, not knowing what she had +heard, made some easy conditional promise. Then those opposite to +the cottage door fell back, for they could see the grave doctors +coming out, and John Foster, graver, sadder still, following them. +Without a word to them,—without a word even of inquiry—which many +outside thought and spoke of as strange—white-faced, dry-eyed +Sylvia slipped into the house out of their sight. +</P> + +<P> +And the waves kept lapping on the shelving shore. +</P> + +<P> +The room inside was dark, all except the little halo or circle of +light made by a dip candle. Widow Dobson had her back to the +bed—her bed—on to which Philip had been borne in the hurry of +terror as to whether he was alive or whether he was dead. She was +crying—crying quietly, but the tears down-falling fast, as, with +her back to the lowly bed, she was gathering up the dripping clothes +cut off from the poor maimed body by the doctors' orders. She only +shook her head as she saw Sylvia, spirit-like, steal in—white, +noiseless, and upborne from earth. +</P> + +<P> +But noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recognized, and +with a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to the wall, hiding +it in the shadow. +</P> + +<P> +He knew that she was by him; that she had knelt down by his bed; +that she was kissing his hand, over which the languor of approaching +death was stealing. But no one spoke. +</P> + +<P> +At length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an effort. +</P> + +<P> +'Little lassie, forgive me now! I cannot live to see the morn!' +</P> + +<P> +There was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, and he felt her +soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that ran through her +whole body. +</P> + +<P> +'I did thee a cruel wrong,' he said, at length. 'I see it now. But +I'm a dying man. I think that God will forgive me—and I've sinned +against Him; try, lassie—try, my Sylvie—will not thou forgive me?' +</P> + +<P> +He listened intently for a moment. He heard through the open window +the waves lapping on the shelving shore. But there came no word from +her; only that same long shivering, miserable sigh broke from her +lips at length. +</P> + +<P> +'Child,' said he, once more. 'I ha' made thee my idol; and if I +could live my life o'er again I would love my God more, and thee +less; and then I shouldn't ha' sinned this sin against thee. But +speak one word of love to me—one little word, that I may know I +have thy pardon.' +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Philip! Philip!' she moaned, thus adjured. +</P> + +<P> +Then she lifted her head, and said, +</P> + +<P> +'Them were wicked, wicked words, as I said; and a wicked vow as I +vowed; and Lord God Almighty has ta'en me at my word. I'm sorely +punished, Philip, I am indeed.' +</P> + +<P> +He pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek. But he asked for yet +another word. +</P> + +<P> +'I did thee a wrong. In my lying heart I forgot to do to thee as I +would have had thee to do to me. And I judged Kinraid in my heart.' +</P> + +<P> +'Thou thought as he was faithless and fickle,' she answered quickly; +'and so he were. He were married to another woman not so many weeks +at after thou went away. Oh, Philip, Philip! and now I have thee +back, and—' +</P> + +<P> +'Dying' was the word she would have said, but first the dread of +telling him what she believed he did not know, and next her +passionate sobs, choked her. +</P> + +<P> +'I know,' said he, once more stroking her cheek, and soothing her +with gentle, caressing hand. 'Little lassie!' he said, after a while +when she was quiet from very exhaustion, 'I niver thought to be so +happy again. God is very merciful.' +</P> + +<P> +She lifted up her head, and asked wildly, 'Will He iver forgive me, +think yo'? I drove yo' out fra' yo'r home, and sent yo' away to t' +wars, wheere yo' might ha' getten yo'r death; and when yo' come +back, poor and lone, and weary, I told her for t' turn yo' out, for +a' I knew yo' must be starving in these famine times. I think I +shall go about among them as gnash their teeth for iver, while yo' +are wheere all tears are wiped away.' +</P> + +<P> +'No!' said Philip, turning round his face, forgetful of himself in +his desire to comfort her. 'God pities us as a father pities his +poor wandering children; the nearer I come to death the clearer I +see Him. But you and me have done wrong to each other; yet we can +see now how we were led to it; we can pity and forgive one another. +I'm getting low and faint, lassie; but thou must remember this: God +knows more, and is more forgiving than either you to me, or me to +you. I think and do believe as we shall meet together before His +face; but then I shall ha' learnt to love thee second to Him; not +first, as I have done here upon the earth.' +</P> + +<P> +Then he was silent—very still. Sylvia knew—widow Dobson had +brought it in—that there was some kind of medicine, sent by the +hopeless doctors, lying upon the table hard by, and she softly rose +and poured it out and dropped it into the half-open mouth. Then she +knelt down again, holding the hand feebly stretched out to her, and +watching the faint light in the wistful loving eyes. And in the +stillness she heard the ceaseless waves lapping against the shelving +shore. +</P> + +<P> +Something like an hour before this time, which was the deepest +midnight of the summer's night, Hester Rose had come hurrying up the +road to where Kester and his sister sate outside the open door, +keeping their watch under the star-lit sky, all others having gone +away, one by one, even John and Jeremiah Foster having returned to +their own house, where the little Bella lay, sleeping a sound and +healthy slumber after her perilous adventure. +</P> + +<P> +Hester had heard but little from William Darley as to the owner of +the watch and the half-crown; but he was chagrined at the failure of +all his skilful interrogations to elicit the truth, and promised her +further information in a few days, with all the more vehemence +because he was unaccustomed to be baffled. And Hester had again +whispered to herself 'Patience! Patience!' and had slowly returned +back to her home to find that Sylvia had left it, why she did not at +once discover. But, growing uneasy as the advancing hours neither +brought Sylvia nor little Bella to their home, she had set out for +Jeremiah Foster's as soon as she had seen her mother comfortably +asleep in her bed; and then she had learnt the whole story, bit by +bit, as each person who spoke broke in upon the previous narration +with some new particular. But from no one did she clearly learn +whether Sylvia was with her husband, or not; and so she came +speeding along the road, breathless, to where Kester sate in +wakeful, mournful silence, his sister's sleeping head lying on his +shoulder, the cottage door open, both for air and that there might +be help within call if needed; and the dim slanting oblong of the +interior light lying across the road. +</P> + +<P> +Hester came panting up, too agitated and breathless to ask how much +was truth of the fatal, hopeless tale which she had heard. Kester +looked at her without a word. Through this solemn momentary silence +the lapping of the ceaseless waves was heard, as they came up close +on the shelving shore. +</P> + +<P> +'He? Philip?' said she. Kester shook his head sadly. +</P> + +<P> +'And his wife—Sylvia?' said Hester. +</P> + +<P> +'In there with him, alone,' whispered Kester. +</P> + +<P> +Hester turned away, and wrung her hands together. +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, Lord God Almighty!' said she, 'was I not even worthy to bring +them together at last?' And she went away slowly and heavily back to +the side of her sleeping mother. But 'Thy will be done' was on her +quivering lips before she lay down to her rest. +</P> + +<P> +The soft gray dawn lightens the darkness of a midsummer night soon +after two o'clock. Philip watched it come, knowing that it was his +last sight of day,—as we reckon days on earth. +</P> + +<P> +He had been often near death as a soldier; once or twice, as when he +rushed into fire to save Kinraid, his chances of life had been as +one to a hundred; but yet he had had a chance. But now there was the +new feeling—the last new feeling which we shall any of us +experience in this world—that death was not only close at hand, +but inevitable. +</P> + +<P> +He felt its numbness stealing up him—stealing up him. But the head +was clear, the brain more than commonly active in producing vivid +impressions. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed but yesterday since he was a little boy at his mother's +knee, wishing with all the earnestness of his childish heart to be +like Abraham, who was called the friend of God, or David, who was +said to be the man after God's own heart, or St John, who was called +'the Beloved.' As very present seemed the day on which he made +resolutions of trying to be like them; it was in the spring, and +some one had brought in cowslips; and the scent of those flowers was +in his nostrils now, as he lay a-dying—his life ended, his battles +fought, his time for 'being good' over and gone—the opportunity, +once given in all eternity, past. +</P> + +<P> +All the temptations that had beset him rose clearly before him; the +scenes themselves stood up in their solid materialism—he could have +touched the places; the people, the thoughts, the arguments that +Satan had urged in behalf of sin, were reproduced with the vividness +of a present time. And he knew that the thoughts were illusions, the +arguments false and hollow; for in that hour came the perfect vision +of the perfect truth: he saw the 'way to escape' which had come +along with the temptation; now, the strong resolve of an ardent +boyhood, with all a life before it to show the world 'what a +Christian might be'; and then the swift, terrible now, when his +naked, guilty soul shrank into the shadow of God's mercy-seat, out +of the blaze of His anger against all those who act a lie. +</P> + +<P> +His mind was wandering, and he plucked it back. Was this death in +very deed? He tried to grasp at the present, the earthly present, +fading quick away. He lay there on the bed—on Sally Dobson's bed in +the house-place, not on his accustomed pallet in the lean-to. He +knew that much. And the door was open into the still, dusk night; +and through the open casement he could hear the lapping of the waves +on the shelving shore, could see the soft gray dawn over the sea—he +knew it was over the sea—he saw what lay unseen behind the poor +walls of the cottage. And it was Sylvia who held his hand tight in +her warm, living grasp; it was his wife whose arm was thrown around +him, whose sobbing sighs shook his numbed frame from time to time. +</P> + +<P> +'God bless and comfort my darling,' he said to himself. 'She knows +me now. All will be right in heaven—in the light of God's mercy.' +</P> + +<P> +And then he tried to remember all that he had ever read about, God, +and all that the blessed Christ—that bringeth glad tidings of great +joy unto all people, had said of the Father, from whom He came. +Those sayings dropped like balm down upon his troubled heart and +brain. He remembered his mother, and how she had loved him; and he +was going to a love wiser, tenderer, deeper than hers. +</P> + +<P> +As he thought this, he moved his hands as if to pray; but Sylvia +clenched her hold, and he lay still, praying all the same for her, +for his child, and for himself. Then he saw the sky redden with the +first flush of dawn; he heard Kester's long-drawn sigh of weariness +outside the open door. +</P> + +<P> +He had seen widow Dobson pass through long before to keep the +remainder of her watch on the bed in the lean-to, which had been his +for many and many a sleepless and tearful night. Those nights were +over—he should never see that poor chamber again, though it was +scarce two feet distant. He began to lose all sense of the +comparative duration of time: it seemed as long since kind Sally +Dobson had bent over him with soft, lingering look, before going +into the humble sleeping-room—as long as it was since his boyhood, +when he stood by his mother dreaming of the life that should be his, +with the scent of the cowslips tempting him to be off to the +woodlands where they grew. Then there came a rush and an eddying +through his brain—his soul trying her wings for the long flight. +Again he was in the present: he heard the waves lapping against the +shelving shore once again. +</P> + +<P> +And now his thoughts came back to Sylvia. Once more he spoke aloud, +in a strange and terrible voice, which was not his. Every sound came +with efforts that were new to him. +</P> + +<P> +'My wife! Sylvie! Once more—forgive me all.' +</P> + +<P> +She sprang up, she kissed his poor burnt lips; she held him in her +arms, she moaned, and said, +</P> + +<P> +'Oh, wicked me! forgive me—me—Philip!' +</P> + +<P> +Then he spoke, and said, 'Lord, forgive us our trespasses as we +forgive each other!' And after that the power of speech was +conquered by the coming death. He lay very still, his consciousness +fast fading away, yet coming back in throbs, so that he knew it was +Sylvia who touched his lips with cordial, and that it was Sylvia who +murmured words of love in his ear. He seemed to sleep at last, and +so he did—a kind of sleep, but the light of the red morning sun +fell on his eyes, and with one strong effort he rose up, and turned +so as once more to see his wife's pale face of misery. +</P> + +<P> +'In heaven,' he cried, and a bright smile came on his face, as he +fell back on his pillow. +</P> + +<P> +Not long after Hester came, the little Bella scarce awake in her +arms, with the purpose of bringing his child to see him ere yet he +passed away. Hester had watched and prayed through the livelong +night. And now she found him dead, and Sylvia, tearless and almost +unconscious, lying by him, her hand holding his, her other thrown +around him. +</P> + +<P> +Kester, poor old man, was sobbing bitterly; but she not at all. +</P> + +<P> +Then Hester bore her child to her, and Sylvia opened wide her +miserable eyes, and only stared, as if all sense was gone from her. +But Bella suddenly rousing up at the sight of the poor, scarred, +peaceful face, cried out,— +</P> + +<P> +'Poor man who was so hungry. Is he not hungry now?' +</P> + +<P> +'No,' said Hester, softly. 'The former things are passed away—and +he is gone where there is no more sorrow, and no more pain.' +</P> + +<P> +But then she broke down into weeping and crying. Sylvia sat up and +looked at her. +</P> + +<P> +'Why do yo' cry, Hester?' she said. 'Yo' niver said that yo' +wouldn't forgive him as long as yo' lived. Yo' niver broke the heart +of him that loved yo', and let him almost starve at yo'r very door. +Oh, Philip! my Philip, tender and true.' +</P> + +<P> +Then Hester came round and closed the sad half-open eyes; kissing +the calm brow with a long farewell kiss. As she did so, her eye fell +on a black ribbon round his neck. She partly lifted it out; to it +was hung a half-crown piece. +</P> + +<P> +'This is the piece he left at William Darley's to be bored,' said +she, 'not many days ago.' +</P> + +<P> +Bella had crept to her mother's arms as a known haven in this +strange place; and the touch of his child loosened the fountains of +her tears. She stretched out her hand for the black ribbon, put it +round her own neck; after a while she said, +</P> + +<P> +'If I live very long, and try hard to be very good all that time, do +yo' think, Hester, as God will let me to him where he is?' +</P> + +<HR ALIGN="center" WIDTH="60%"> + +<P> +Monkshaven is altered now into a rising bathing place. Yet, standing +near the site of widow Dobson's house on a summer's night, at the +ebb of a spring-tide, you may hear the waves come lapping up the +shelving shore with the same ceaseless, ever-recurrent sound as that +which Philip listened to in the pauses between life and death. +</P> + +<P> +And so it will be until 'there shall be no more sea'. +</P> + +<P> +But the memory of man fades away. A few old people can still tell +you the tradition of the man who died in a cottage somewhere about +this spot,—died of starvation while his wife lived in hard-hearted +plenty not two good stone-throws away. This is the form into which +popular feeling, and ignorance of the real facts, have moulded the +story. Not long since a lady went to the 'Public Baths', a handsome +stone building erected on the very site of widow Dobson's cottage, +and finding all the rooms engaged she sat down and had some talk +with the bathing woman; and, as it chanced, the conversation fell on +Philip Hepburn and the legend of his fate. +</P> + +<P> +'I knew an old man when I was a girl,' said the bathing woman, 'as +could niver abide to hear t' wife blamed. He would say nothing +again' th' husband; he used to say as it were not fit for men to be +judging; that she had had her sore trial, as well as Hepburn +hisself.' +</P> + +<P> +The lady asked, 'What became of the wife?' +</P> + +<P> +'She was a pale, sad woman, allays dressed in black. I can just +remember her when I was a little child, but she died before her +daughter was well grown up; and Miss Rose took t' lassie, as had +always been like her own.' +</P> + +<P> +'Miss Rose?' +</P> + +<P> +'Hester Rose! have yo' niver heared of Hester Rose, she as founded +t' alms-houses for poor disabled sailors and soldiers on t' +Horncastle road? There's a piece o' stone in front to say that "This +building is erected in memory of P. H."—and some folk will have it +P. H. stands for t' name o' th' man as was starved to death.' +</P> + +<P> +'And the daughter?' +</P> + +<P> +'One o' th' Fosters, them as founded t' Old Bank, left her a vast o' +money; and she were married to distant cousin of theirs, and went +off to settle in America many and many a year ago.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sylvia's Lovers, Vol. III, by Elizabeth Gaskell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIA'S LOVERS, VOL. III *** + +***** This file should be named 4536-h.htm or 4536-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/3/4536/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Sylvia's Lovers, Vol. III + +Author: Elizabeth Gaskell + +Posting Date: August 11, 2009 [EBook #4536] +Release Date: October, 2003 +First Posted: February 4, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIA'S LOVERS, VOL. III *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +[Editor's Note:--The chapter numbering for volume 2 & 3 was changed +from the original in order to have unique chapter numbers for the +complete version, so volume 2 starts with chapter XV and volume 3 +starts with chapter XXX.] + + + + + +SYLVIA'S LOVERS. + + +BY + +ELIZABETH GASKELL + + + + Oh for thy voice to soothe and bless! + What hope of answer, or redress? + Behind the veil! Behind the veil!--Tennyson + + + + +IN THREE VOLUMES. + +VOL. III. + +LONDON: + +M.DCCC.LXIII. + + + + +CONTENTS + + XXX HAPPY DAYS + XXXI EVIL OMENS + XXXII RESCUED FROM THE WAVES + XXXIII AN APPARITION + XXXIV A RECKLESS RECRUIT + XXXV THINGS UNUTTERABLE + XXXVI MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS + XXXVII BEREAVEMENT + XXXVIII THE RECOGNITION + XXXIX CONFIDENCES + XL AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER + XLI THE BEDESMAN OF ST SEPULCHRE + XLII A FABLE AT FAULT + XLIII THE UNKNOWN + XLIV FIRST WORDS + XLV SAVED AND LOST + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +HAPPY DAYS + + +And now Philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could desire. The +business flourished, and money beyond his moderate wants came in. As +for himself he required very little; but he had always looked +forward to placing his idol in a befitting shrine; and means for +this were now furnished to him. The dress, the comforts, the +position he had desired for Sylvia were all hers. She did not need +to do a stroke of household work if she preferred to 'sit in her +parlour and sew up a seam'. Indeed Phoebe resented any interference +in the domestic labour, which she had performed so long, that she +looked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her own. 'Mrs +Hepburn' (as Sylvia was now termed) had a good dark silk gown-piece +in her drawers, as well as the poor dove-coloured, against the day +when she chose to leave off mourning; and stuff for either gray or +scarlet cloaks was hers at her bidding. + +What she cared for far more were the comforts with which it was in +her power to surround her mother. In this Philip vied with her; for +besides his old love, and new pity for his aunt Bell, he never +forgot how she had welcomed him to Haytersbank, and favoured his +love to Sylvia, in the yearning days when he little hoped he should +ever win his cousin to be his wife. But even if he had not had these +grateful and affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, he would +have done much for her if only to gain the sweet, rare smiles which +his wife never bestowed upon him so freely as when she saw him +attending to 'mother,' for so both of them now called Bell. For her +creature comforts, her silk gowns, and her humble luxury, Sylvia did +not care; Philip was almost annoyed at the indifference she often +manifested to all his efforts to surround her with such things. It +was even a hardship to her to leave off her country dress, her +uncovered hair, her linsey petticoat, and loose bed-gown, and to don +a stiff and stately gown for her morning dress. Sitting in the dark +parlour at the back of the shop, and doing 'white work,' was much +more wearying to her than running out into the fields to bring up +the cows, or spinning wool, or making up butter. She sometimes +thought to herself that it was a strange kind of life where there +were no out-door animals to look after; the 'ox and the ass' had +hitherto come into all her ideas of humanity; and her care and +gentleness had made the dumb creatures round her father's home into +mute friends with loving eyes, looking at her as if wistful to speak +in words the grateful regard that she could read without the poor +expression of language. + +She missed the free open air, the great dome of sky above the +fields; she rebelled against the necessity of 'dressing' (as she +called it) to go out, although she acknowledged that it was a +necessity where the first step beyond the threshold must be into a +populous street. + +It is possible that Philip was right at one time when he had thought +to win her by material advantages; but the old vanities had been +burnt out of her by the hot iron of acute suffering. A great deal of +passionate feeling still existed, concealed and latent; but at this +period it appeared as though she were indifferent to most things, +and had lost the power of either hoping or fearing much. She was +stunned into a sort of temporary numbness on most points; those on +which she was sensitive being such as referred to the injustice and +oppression of her father's death, or anything that concerned her +mother. + +She was quiet even to passiveness in all her dealings with Philip; +he would have given not a little for some of the old bursts of +impatience, the old pettishness, which, naughty as they were, had +gone to form his idea of the former Sylvia. Once or twice he was +almost vexed with her for her docility; he wanted her so much to +have a will of her own, if only that he might know how to rouse her +to pleasure by gratifying it. Indeed he seldom fell asleep at nights +without his last thoughts being devoted to some little plan for the +morrow, that he fancied she would like; and when he wakened in the +early dawn he looked to see if she were indeed sleeping by his side, +or whether it was not all a dream that he called Sylvia 'wife.' + +He was aware that her affection for him was not to be spoken of in +the same way as his for her, but he found much happiness in only +being allowed to love and cherish her; and with the patient +perseverance that was one remarkable feature in his character, he +went on striving to deepen and increase her love when most other men +would have given up the endeavour, made themselves content with half +a heart, and turned to some other object of attainment. All this +time Philip was troubled by a dream that recurred whenever he was +over-fatigued, or otherwise not in perfect health. Over and over +again in this first year of married life he dreamt this dream; +perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never varied. It was +always of Kinraid's return; Kinraid was full of life in Philip's +dream, though in his waking hours he could and did convince himself +by all the laws of probability that his rival was dead. He never +remembered the exact sequence of events in that terrible dream after +he had roused himself, with a fight and a struggle, from his +feverish slumbers. He was generally sitting up in bed when he found +himself conscious, his heart beating wildly, with a conviction of +Kinraid's living presence somewhere near him in the darkness. +Occasionally Sylvia was disturbed by his agitation, and would +question him about his dreams, having, like most of her class at +that time, great faith in their prophetic interpretation; but Philip +never gave her any truth in his reply. + +After all, and though he did not acknowledge it even to himself, the +long-desired happiness was not so delicious and perfect as he had +anticipated. Many have felt the same in their first year of married +life; but the faithful, patient nature that still works on, striving +to gain love, and capable itself of steady love all the while, is a +gift not given to all. + +For many weeks after their wedding, Kester never came near them: a +chance word or two from Sylvia showed Philip that she had noticed +this and regretted it; and, accordingly, he made it his business at +the next leisure opportunity to go to Haytersbank (never saying a +word to his wife of his purpose), and seek out Kester. + +All the whole place was altered! It was new white-washed, new +thatched: the patches of colour in the surrounding ground were +changed with altered tillage; the great geraniums were gone from the +window, and instead, was a smart knitted blind. Children played +before the house-door; a dog lying on the step flew at Philip; all +was so strange, that it was even the strangest thing of all for +Kester to appear where everything else was so altered! + +Philip had to put up with a good deal of crabbed behaviour on the +part of the latter before he could induce Kester to promise to come +down into the town and see Sylvia in her new home. + +Somehow, the visit when paid was but a failure; at least, it seemed +so at the time, though probably it broke the ice of restraint which +was forming over the familiar intercourse between Kester and Sylvia. +The old servant was daunted by seeing Sylvia in a strange place, and +stood, sleeking his hair down, and furtively looking about him, +instead of seating himself on the chair Sylvia had so eagerly +brought forward for him. + +Then his sense of the estrangement caused by their new positions +infected her, and she began to cry pitifully, saying,-- + +'Oh, Kester! Kester! tell me about Haytersbank! Is it just as it +used to be in feyther's days?' + +'Well, a cannot say as it is,' said Kester, thankful to have a +subject started. 'They'n pleughed up t' oud pasture-field, and are +settin' it for 'taters. They're not for much cattle, isn't +Higginses. They'll be for corn in t' next year, a reckon, and +they'll just ha' their pains for their payment. But they're allays +so pig-headed, is folk fra' a distance.' + +So they went on discoursing on Haytersbank and the old days, till +Bell Robson, having finished her afternoon nap, came slowly +down-stairs to join them; and after that the conversation became so +broken up, from the desire of the other two to attend and reply as +best they could to her fragmentary and disjointed talk, that Kester +took his leave before long; falling, as he did so, into the formal +and unnaturally respectful manner which he had adopted on first +coming in. + +But Sylvia ran after him, and brought him back from the door. + +'To think of thy going away, Kester, without either bit or drink; +nay, come back wi' thee, and taste wine and cake.' + +Kester stood at the door, half shy, half pleased, while Sylvia, in +all the glow and hurry of a young housekeeper's hospitality, sought +for the decanter of wine, and a wine-glass in the corner cupboard, +and hastily cut an immense wedge of cake, which she crammed into his +hand in spite of his remonstrances; and then she poured him out an +overflowing glass of wine, which Kester would far rather have gone +without, as he knew manners too well to suppose that he might taste +it without having gone through the preliminary ceremony of wishing +the donor health and happiness. He stood red and half smiling, with +his cake in one hand, his wine in the other, and then began,-- + + 'Long may ye live, + Happy may ye he, + And blest with a num'rous + Pro-ge-ny.' + +'Theere, that's po'try for yo' as I larnt i' my youth. But there's a +deal to be said as cannot be put int' po'try, an' yet a cannot say +it, somehow. It 'd tax a parson t' say a' as a've getten i' my mind. +It's like a heap o' woo' just after shearin' time; it's worth a +deal, but it tak's a vast o' combin', an' cardin', an' spinnin' +afore it can be made use on. If a were up to t' use o' words, a +could say a mighty deal; but somehow a'm tongue-teed when a come to +want my words most, so a'll only just mak' bold t' say as a think +yo've done pretty well for yo'rsel', getten a house-full o' +furniture' (looking around him as he said this), 'an' vittle an' +clothin' for t' axing, belike, an' a home for t' missus in her time +o' need; an' mebbe not such a bad husband as a once thought yon man +'ud mak'; a'm not above sayin' as he's, mebbe, better nor a took him +for;--so here's to ye both, and wishin' ye health and happiness, ay, +and money to buy yo' another, as country folk say.' + +Having ended his oration, much to his own satisfaction, Kester +tossed off his glass of wine, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with +the back of his hand, pocketed his cake, and made off. + +That night Sylvia spoke of his visit to her husband. Philip never +said how he himself had brought it to pass, nor did he name the fact +that he had heard the old man come in just as he himself had +intended going into the parlour for tea, but had kept away, as he +thought Sylvia and Kester would most enjoy their interview +undisturbed. And Sylvia felt as if her husband's silence was +unsympathizing, and shut up the feelings that were just beginning to +expand towards him. She sank again into the listless state of +indifference from which nothing but some reference to former days, +or present consideration for her mother, could rouse her. + +Hester was almost surprised at Sylvia's evident liking for her. By +slow degrees Hester was learning to love the woman, whose position +as Philip's wife she would have envied so keenly had she not been so +truly good and pious. But Sylvia seemed as though she had given +Hester her whole affection all at once. Hester could not understand +this, while she was touched and melted by the trust it implied. For +one thing Sylvia remembered and regretted--her harsh treatment of +Hester the rainy, stormy night on which the latter had come to +Haytersbank to seek her and her mother, and bring them into +Monkshaven to see the imprisoned father and husband. Sylvia had been +struck with Hester's patient endurance of her rudeness, a rudeness +which she was conscious that she herself should have immediately and +vehemently resented. Sylvia did not understand how a totally +different character from hers might immediately forgive the anger +she could not forget; and because Hester had been so meek at the +time, Sylvia, who knew how passing and transitory was her own anger, +thought that all was forgotten; while Hester believed that the +words, which she herself could not have uttered except under deep +provocation, meant much more than they did, and admired and wondered +at Sylvia for having so entirely conquered her anger against her. + +Again, the two different women were divergently affected by the +extreme fondness which Bell had shown towards Hester ever since +Sylvia's wedding-day. Sylvia, who had always received more love from +others than she knew what to do with, had the most entire faith in +her own supremacy in her mother's heart, though at times Hester +would do certain things more to the poor old woman's satisfaction. +Hester, who had craved for the affection which had been withheld +from her, and had from that one circumstance become distrustful of +her own power of inspiring regard, while she exaggerated the delight +of being beloved, feared lest Sylvia should become jealous of her +mother's open display of great attachment and occasional preference +for Hester. But such a thought never entered Sylvia's mind. She was +more thankful than she knew how to express towards any one who made +her mother happy; as has been already said, the contributing to Bell +Robson's pleasures earned Philip more of his wife's smiles than +anything else. And Sylvia threw her whole heart into the words and +caresses she lavished on Hester whenever poor Mrs. Robson spoke of +the goodness and kindness of the latter. Hester attributed more +virtue to these sweet words and deeds of gratitude than they +deserved; they did not imply in Sylvia any victory over evil +temptation, as they would have done in Hester. + +It seemed to be Sylvia's fate to captivate more people than she +cared to like back again. She turned the heads of John and Jeremiah +Foster, who could hardly congratulate Philip enough on his choice of +a wife. + +They had been prepared to be critical on one who had interfered with +their favourite project of a marriage between Philip and Hester; +and, though full of compassion for the cruelty of Daniel Robson's +fate, they were too completely men of business not to have some +apprehension that the connection of Philip Hepburn with the daughter +of a man who was hanged, might injure the shop over which both his +and their name appeared. But all the possible proprieties demanded +that they should pay attention to the bride of their former shopman +and present successor; and the very first visitors whom Sylvia had +received after her marriage had been John and Jeremiah Foster, in +their sabbath-day clothes. They found her in the parlour (so +familiar to both of them!) clear-starching her mother's caps, which +had to be got up in some particular fashion that Sylvia was afraid +of dictating to Phoebe. + +She was a little disturbed at her visitors discovering her at this +employment; but she was on her own ground, and that gave her +self-possession; and she welcomed the two old men so sweetly and +modestly, and looked so pretty and feminine, and, besides, so +notable in her handiwork, that she conquered all their prejudices at +one blow; and their first thought on leaving the shop was how to do +her honour, by inviting her to a supper party at Jeremiah Foster's +house. + +Sylvia was dismayed when she was bidden to this wedding feast, and +Philip had to use all his authority, though tenderly, to make her +consent to go at all. She had been to merry country parties like the +Corneys', and to bright haymaking romps in the open air; but never +to a set stately party at a friend's house. + +She would fain have made attendance on her mother an excuse; but +Philip knew he must not listen to any such plea, and applied to +Hester in the dilemma, asking her to remain with Mrs. Robson while he +and Sylvia went out visiting; and Hester had willingly, nay, eagerly +consented--it was much more to her taste than going out. + +So Philip and Sylvia set out, arm-in-arm, down Bridge Street, across +the bridge, and then clambered up the hill. On the way he gave her +the directions she asked for about her behaviour as bride and most +honoured guest; and altogether succeeded, against his intention and +will, in frightening her so completely as to the grandeur and +importance of the occasion, and the necessity of remembering certain +set rules, and making certain set speeches and attending to them +when the right time came, that, if any one so naturally graceful +could have been awkward, Sylvia would have been so that night. + +As it was, she sate, pale and weary-looking, on the very edge of her +chair; she uttered the formal words which Philip had told her were +appropriate to the occasion, and she heartily wished herself safe at +home and in bed. Yet she left but one unanimous impression on the +company when she went away, namely, that she was the prettiest and +best-behaved woman they had ever seen, and that Philip Hepburn had +done well in choosing her, felon's daughter though she might be. + +Both the hosts had followed her into the lobby to help Philip in +cloaking her, and putting on her pattens. They were full of +old-fashioned compliments and good wishes; one speech of theirs came +up to her memory in future years:-- + +'Now, Sylvia Hepburn,' said Jeremiah, 'I've known thy husband long, +and I don't say but what thou hast done well in choosing him; but if +he ever neglects or ill-uses thee, come to me, and I'll give him a +sound lecture on his conduct. Mind, I'm thy friend from this day +forrards, and ready to take thy part against him!' + +Philip smiled as if the day would never come when he should neglect +or ill-use his darling; Sylvia smiled a little, without much +attending to, or caring for, the words that were detaining her, +tired as she was; John and Jeremiah chuckled over the joke; but the +words came up again in after days, as words idly spoken sometimes +do. + +Before the end of that first year, Philip had learnt to be jealous +of his wife's new love for Hester. To the latter, Sylvia gave the +free confidence on many things which Philip fancied she withheld +from him. A suspicion crossed his mind, from time to time, that +Sylvia might speak of her former lover to Hester. It would be not +unnatural, he thought, if she did so, believing him to be dead; but +the idea irritated him. + +He was entirely mistaken, however; Sylvia, with all her apparent +frankness, kept her deep sorrows to herself. She never mentioned her +father's name, though he was continually present to her mind. Nor +did she speak of Kinraid to human being, though, for his sake, her +voice softened when, by chance, she spoke to a passing sailor; and +for his sake her eyes lingered on such men longer than on others, +trying to discover in them something of the old familiar gait; and +partly for his dead sake, and partly because of the freedom of the +outlook and the freshness of the air, she was glad occasionally to +escape from the comfortable imprisonment of her 'parlour', and the +close streets around the market-place, and to mount the cliffs and +sit on the turf, gazing abroad over the wide still expanse of the +open sea; for, at that height, even breaking waves only looked like +broken lines of white foam on the blue watery plain. + +She did not want any companion on these rambles, which had somewhat +of the delight of stolen pleasures; for all the other respectable +matrons and town-dwellers whom she knew were content to have always +a business object for their walk, or else to stop at home in their +own households; and Sylvia was rather ashamed of her own yearnings +for solitude and open air, and the sight and sound of the +mother-like sea. She used to take off her hat, and sit there, her +hands clasping her knees, the salt air lifting her bright curls, +gazing at the distant horizon over the sea, in a sad dreaminess of +thought; if she had been asked on what she meditated, she could not +have told you. + +But, by-and-by, the time came when she was a prisoner in the house; +a prisoner in her room, lying in bed with a little baby by her +side--her child, Philip's child. His pride, his delight knew no +bounds; this was a new fast tie between them; this would reconcile +her to the kind of life that, with all its respectability and +comfort, was so different from what she had lived before, and which +Philip had often perceived that she felt to be dull and restraining. +He already began to trace in the little girl, only a few days old, +the lovely curves that he knew so well by heart in the mother's +face. Sylvia, too, pale, still, and weak, was very happy; yes, +really happy for the first time since her irrevocable marriage. For +its irrevocableness had weighed much upon her with a sense of dull +hopelessness; she felt all Philip's kindness, she was grateful to +him for his tender regard towards her mother, she was learning to +love him as well as to like and respect him. She did not know what +else she could have done but marry so true a friend, and she and her +mother so friendless; but, at the same time, it was like lead on her +morning spirits when she awoke and remembered that the decision was +made, the dead was done, the choice taken which comes to most people +but once in their lives. Now the little baby came in upon this state +of mind like a ray of sunlight into a gloomy room. + +Even her mother was rejoiced and proud; even with her crazed brain +and broken heart, the sight of sweet, peaceful infancy brought light +to her. All the old ways of holding a baby, of hushing it to sleep, +of tenderly guarding its little limbs from injury, came back, like +the habits of her youth, to Bell; and she was never so happy or so +easy in her mind, or so sensible and connected in her ideas, as when +she had Sylvia's baby in her arms. + +It was a pretty sight to see, however familiar to all of us such +things may be--the pale, worn old woman, in her quaint, +old-fashioned country dress, holding the little infant on her knees, +looking at its open, unspeculative eyes, and talking the little +language to it as though it could understand; the father on his +knees, kept prisoner by a small, small finger curled round his +strong and sinewy one, and gazing at the tiny creature with +wondering idolatry; the young mother, fair, pale, and smiling, +propped up on pillows in order that she, too, might see the +wonderful babe; it was astonishing how the doctor could come and go +without being drawn into the admiring vortex, and look at this baby +just as if babies came into the world every day. + +'Philip,' said Sylvia, one night, as he sate as still as a mouse in +her room, imagining her to be asleep. He was by her bed-side in a +moment. + +'I've been thinking what she's to be called. Isabella, after mother; +and what were yo'r mother's name?' + +'Margaret,' said he. + +'Margaret Isabella; Isabella Margaret. Mother's called Bell. She +might be called Bella.' + +'I could ha' wished her to be called after thee.' + +She made a little impatient movement. + +'Nay; Sylvia's not a lucky name. Best be called after thy mother and +mine. And I want for to ask Hester to be godmother.' + +'Anything thou likes, sweetheart. Shall we call her Rose, after +Hester Rose?' + +'No, no!' said Sylvia; 'she mun be called after my mother, or thine, +or both. I should like her to be called Bella, after mother, because +she's so fond of baby.' + +'Anything to please thee, darling.' + +'Don't say that as if it didn't signify; there's a deal in having a +pretty name,' said Sylvia, a little annoyed. 'I ha' allays hated +being called Sylvia. It were after father's mother, Sylvia Steele.' + +'I niver thought any name in a' the world so sweet and pretty as +Sylvia,' said Philip, fondly; but she was too much absorbed in her +own thoughts to notice either his manner or his words. + +'There, yo'll not mind if it is Bella, because yo' see my mother is +alive to be pleased by its being named after her, and Hester may be +godmother, and I'll ha' t' dove-coloured silk as yo' gave me afore +we were married made up into a cloak for it to go to church in.' + +'I got it for thee,' said Philip, a little disappointed. 'It'll be +too good for the baby.' + +'Eh! but I'm so careless, I should be spilling something on it? But +if thou got it for me I cannot find i' my heart for t' wear it on +baby, and I'll have it made into a christening gown for mysel'. But +I'll niver feel at my ease in it, for fear of spoiling it.' + +'Well! an' if thou does spoil it, love, I'll get thee another. I +make account of riches only for thee; that I may be able to get thee +whativer thou's a fancy for, for either thysel', or thy mother.' + +She lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put up her lips to +kiss him for these words. + +Perhaps on that day Philip reached the zenith of his life's +happiness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +EVIL OMENS + + +The first step in Philip's declension happened in this way. Sylvia +had made rapid progress in her recovery; but now she seemed at a +stationary point of weakness; wakeful nights succeeding to languid +days. Occasionally she caught a little sleep in the afternoons, but +she usually awoke startled and feverish. + +One afternoon Philip had stolen upstairs to look at her and his +child; but the efforts he made at careful noiselessness made the +door creak on its hinges as he opened it. The woman employed to +nurse her had taken the baby into another room that no sound might +rouse her from her slumber; and Philip would probably have been +warned against entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping had +he been perceived by the nurse. As it was, he opened the door, made +a noise, and Sylvia started up, her face all one flush, her eyes +wild and uncertain; she looked about her as if she did not know +where she was; pushed the hair off her hot forehead; all which +actions Philip saw, dismayed and regretful. But he kept still, +hoping that she would lie down and compose herself. Instead she +stretched out her arms imploringly, and said, in a voice full of +yearning and tears,-- + +'Oh! Charley! come to me--come to me!' and then as she more fully +became aware of the place where she was, her actual situation, she +sank back and feebly began to cry. Philip's heart boiled within him; +any man's would under the circumstances, but he had the sense of +guilty concealment to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. Her +weak cry after another man, too, irritated him, partly through his +anxious love, which made him wise to know how much physical harm she +was doing herself. At this moment he stirred, or unintentionally +made some sound: she started up afresh, and called out,-- + +'Oh, who's theere? Do, for God's sake, tell me who yo' are!' + +'It's me,' said Philip, coming forwards, striving to keep down the +miserable complication of love and jealousy, and remorse and anger, +that made his heart beat so wildly, and almost took him out of +himself. Indeed, he must have been quite beside himself for the +time, or he could never have gone on to utter the unwise, cruel +words he did. But she spoke first, in a distressed and plaintive +tone of voice. + +'Oh, Philip, I've been asleep, and yet I think I was awake! And I +saw Charley Kinraid as plain as iver I see thee now, and he wasn't +drowned at all. I'm sure he's alive somewheere; he were so clear and +life-like. Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?' + +She wrung her hands in feverish distress. Urged by passionate +feelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to quench the +agitation which was doing her harm, Philip spoke, hardly knowing +what he said. + +'Kinraid's dead, I tell yo', Sylvie! And what kind of a woman are +yo' to go dreaming of another man i' this way, and taking on so +about him, when yo're a wedded wife, with a child as yo've borne to +another man?' + +In a moment he could have bitten out his tongue. She looked at him +with the mute reproach which some of us see (God help us!) in the +eyes of the dead, as they come before our sad memories in the +night-season; looked at him with such a solemn, searching look, +never saying a word of reply or defence. Then she lay down, +motionless and silent. He had been instantly stung with remorse for +his speech; the words were not beyond his lips when an agony had +entered his heart; but her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumb +and motionless as if by a spell. + +Now he rushed to the bed on which she lay, and half knelt, half +threw himself upon it, imploring her to forgive him; regardless for +the time of any evil consequences to her, it seemed as if he must +have her pardon--her relenting--at any price, even if they both died +in the act of reconciliation. But she lay speechless, and, as far as +she could be, motionless, the bed trembling under her with the +quivering she could not still. + +Philip's wild tones caught the nurse's ears, and she entered full of +the dignified indignation of wisdom. + +'Are yo' for killing yo'r wife, measter?' she asked. 'She's noane so +strong as she can bear flytin' and scoldin', nor will she be for +many a week to come. Go down wi' ye, and leave her i' peace if yo're +a man as can be called a man!' + +Her anger was rising as she caught sight of Sylvia's averted face. +It was flushed crimson, her eyes full of intense emotion of some +kind, her lips compressed; but an involuntary twitching +overmastering her resolute stillness from time to time. Philip, who +did not see the averted face, nor understand the real danger in +which he was placing his wife, felt as though he must have one word, +one responsive touch of the hand which lay passive in his, which was +not even drawn away from the kisses with which he covered it, any +more than if it had been an impassive stone. The nurse had fairly to +take him by the shoulders, and turn him out of the room. + +In half an hour the doctor had to be summoned. Of course, the nurse +gave him her version of the events of the afternoon, with much +_animus_ against Philip; and the doctor thought it his duty to have +some very serious conversation with him. + +'I do assure you, Mr. Hepburn, that, in the state your wife has been +in for some days, it was little less than madness on your part to +speak to her about anything that could give rise to strong emotion.' + +'It was madness, sir!' replied Philip, in a low, miserable tone of +voice. The doctor's heart was touched, in spite of the nurse's +accusations against the scolding husband. Yet the danger was now too +serious for him to mince matters. + +'I must tell you that I cannot answer for her life, unless the +greatest precautions are taken on your part, and unless the measures +I shall use have the effect I wish for in the next twenty-four +hours. She is on the verge of a brain fever. Any allusion to the +subject which has been the final cause of the state in which she now +is must be most cautiously avoided, even to a chance word which may +bring it to her memory.' + +And so on; but Philip seemed to hear only this: then he might not +express contrition, or sue for pardon, he must go on unforgiven +through all this stress of anxiety; and even if she recovered the +doctor warned him of the undesirableness of recurring to what had +passed! + +Heavy miserable times of endurance and waiting have to be passed +through by all during the course of their lives; and Philip had had +his share of such seasons, when the heart, and the will, and the +speech, and the limbs, must be bound down with strong resolution to +patience. + +For many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden to see Sylvia, as +the very sound of his footstep brought on a recurrence of the fever +and convulsive movement. Yet she seemed, from questions she feebly +asked the nurse, to have forgotten all that had happened on the day +of her attack from the time when she dropped off to sleep. But how +much she remembered of after occurrences no one could ascertain. She +was quiet enough when, at length, Philip was allowed to see her. But +he was half jealous of his child, when he watched how she could +smile at it, while she never changed a muscle of her face at all he +could do or say. + +And of a piece with this extreme quietude and reserve was her +behaviour to him when at length she had fully recovered, and was +able to go about the house again. Philip thought many a time of the +words she had used long before--before their marriage. Ominous words +they were. + +'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me to +forget.' + +Philip was tender even to humility in his conduct towards her. But +nothing stirred her from her fortress of reserve. And he knew she +was so different; he knew how loving, nay, passionate, was her +nature--vehement, demonstrative--oh! how could he stir her once more +into expression, even if the first show or speech she made was of +anger? Then he tried being angry with her himself; he was sometimes +unjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke her +into defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness. He +only seemed to drive her love away still more. + +If any one had known all that was passing in that household, while +yet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis, +their hearts would have been sorry for the man who lingered long at +the door of the room in which his wife sate cooing and talking to +her baby, and sometimes laughing back to it, or who was soothing the +querulousness of failing age with every possible patience of love; +sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for the profusion of +tenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only by stealth +caught the echoes of what ought to have been his. + +It was so difficult to complain, too; impossible, in fact. +Everything that a wife could do from duty she did; but the love +seemed to have fled, and, in such cases, no reproaches or complaints +can avail to bring it back. So reason outsiders, and are convinced +of the result before the experiment is made. But Philip could not +reason, or could not yield to reason; and so he complained and +reproached. She did not much answer him; but he thought that her +eyes expressed the old words,-- + +'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me to +forget.' + +However, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, that, even in the +most tender and stable masculine natures, at the supremest season of +their lives, there is room for other thoughts and passions than such +as are connected with love. Even with the most domestic and +affectionate men, their emotions seem to be kept in a cell distinct +and away from their actual lives. Philip had other thoughts and +other occupations than those connected with his wife during all this +time. + +An uncle of his mother's, a Cumberland 'statesman', of whose +existence he was barely conscious, died about this time, leaving to +his unknown great-nephew four or five hundred pounds, which put him +at once in a different position with regard to his business. +Henceforward his ambition was roused,--such humble ambition as +befitted a shop-keeper in a country town sixty or seventy years ago. +To be respected by the men around him had always been an object with +him, and was, perhaps, becoming more so than ever now, as a sort of +refuge from his deep, sorrowful mortification in other directions. +He was greatly pleased at being made a sidesman; and, in preparation +for the further honour of being churchwarden, he went regularly +twice a day to church on Sundays. There was enough religious feeling +in him to make him disguise the worldly reason for such conduct from +himself. He believed that he went because he thought it right to +attend public worship in the parish church whenever it was offered +up; but it may be questioned of him, as of many others, how far he +would have been as regular in attendance in a place where he was not +known. With this, however, we have nothing to do. The fact was that +he went regularly to church, and he wished his wife to accompany him +to the pew, newly painted, with his name on the door, where he sate +in full sight of the clergyman and congregation. + +Sylvia had never been in the habit of such regular church-going, and +she felt it as a hardship, and slipped out of the duty as often as +ever she could. In her unmarried days, she and her parents had gone +annually to the mother-church of the parish in which Haytersbank was +situated: on the Monday succeeding the Sunday next after the Romish +Saint's Day, to whom the church was dedicated, there was a great +feast or wake held; and, on the Sunday, all the parishioners came to +church from far and near. Frequently, too, in the course of the +year, Sylvia would accompany one or other of her parents to Scarby +Moorside afternoon service,--when the hay was got in, and the corn +not ready for cutting, or the cows were dry and there was no +afternoon milking. Many clergymen were languid in those days, and +did not too curiously inquire into the reasons which gave them such +small congregations in country parishes. + +Now she was married, this weekly church-going which Philip seemed to +expect from her, became a tie and a small hardship, which connected +itself with her life of respectability and prosperity. 'A crust of +bread and liberty' was much more accordant to Sylvia's nature than +plenty of creature comforts and many restraints. Another wish of +Philip's, against which she said no word, but constantly rebelled in +thought and deed, was his desire that the servant he had engaged +during the time of her illness to take charge of the baby, should +always carry it whenever it was taken out for a walk. Sylvia often +felt, now she was strong, as if she would far rather have been +without the responsibility of having this nursemaid, of whom she +was, in reality, rather afraid. The good side of it was that it set +her at liberty to attend to her mother at times when she would have +been otherwise occupied with her baby; but Bell required very little +from any one: she was easily pleased, unexacting, and methodical +even in her dotage; preserving the quiet, undemonstrative habits of +her earlier life now that the faculty of reason, which had been at +the basis of the formation of such habits, was gone. She took great +delight in watching the baby, and was pleased to have it in her care +for a short time; but she dozed so much that it prevented her having +any strong wish on the subject. + +So Sylvia contrived to get her baby as much as possible to herself, +in spite of the nursemaid; and, above all, she would carry it out, +softly cradled in her arms, warm pillowed on her breast, and bear it +to the freedom and solitude of the sea-shore on the west side of the +town where the cliffs were not so high, and there was a good space +of sand and shingle at all low tides. + +Once here, she was as happy as she ever expected to be in this +world. The fresh sea-breeze restored something of the colour of +former days to her cheeks, the old buoyancy to her spirits; here she +might talk her heart-full of loving nonsense to her baby; here it +was all her own; no father to share in it, no nursemaid to dispute +the wisdom of anything she did with it. She sang to it, she tossed +it; it crowed and it laughed back again, till both were weary; and +then she would sit down on a broken piece of rock, and fall to +gazing on the advancing waves catching the sunlight on their crests, +advancing, receding, for ever and for ever, as they had done all her +life long--as they did when she had walked with them that once by +the side of Kinraid; those cruel waves that, forgetful of the happy +lovers' talk by the side of their waters, had carried one away, and +drowned him deep till he was dead. Every time she sate down to look +at the sea, this process of thought was gone through up to this +point; the next step would, she knew, bring her to the question she +dared not, must not ask. He was dead; he must be dead; for was she +not Philip's wife? Then came up the recollection of Philip's speech, +never forgotten, only buried out of sight: 'What kind of a woman are +yo' to go on dreaming of another man, and yo' a wedded wife?' She +used to shudder as if cold steel had been plunged into her warm, +living body as she remembered these words; cruel words, harmlessly +provoked. They were too much associated with physical pains to be +dwelt upon; only their memory was always there. She paid for these +happy rambles with her baby by the depression which awaited her on +her re-entrance into the dark, confined house that was her home; its +very fulness of comfort was an oppression. Then, when her husband +saw her pale and fatigued, he was annoyed, and sometimes upbraided +her for doing what was so unnecessary as to load herself with her +child. She knew full well it was not that that caused her weariness. +By-and-by, when he inquired and discovered that all these walks were +taken in one direction, out towards the sea, he grew jealous of her +love for the inanimate ocean. Was it connected in her mind with the +thought of Kinraid? Why did she so perseveringly, in wind or cold, +go out to the sea-shore; the western side, too, where, if she went +but far enough, she would come upon the mouth of the Haytersbank +gully, the point at which she had last seen Kinraid? Such fancies +haunted Philip's mind for hours after she had acknowledged the +direction of her walks. But he never said a word that could +distinctly tell her he disliked her going to the sea, otherwise she +would have obeyed him in this, as in everything else; for absolute +obedience to her husband seemed to be her rule of life at this +period--obedience to him who would so gladly have obeyed her +smallest wish had she but expressed it! She never knew that Philip +had any painful association with the particular point on the +sea-shore that she instinctively avoided, both from a consciousness +of wifely duty, and also because the sight of it brought up so much +sharp pain. + +Philip used to wonder if the dream that preceded her illness was the +suggestive cause that drew her so often to the shore. Her illness +consequent upon that dream had filled his mind, so that for many +months he himself had had no haunting vision of Kinraid to disturb +his slumbers. But now the old dream of Kinraid's actual presence by +Philip's bedside began to return with fearful vividness. Night after +night it recurred; each time with some new touch of reality, and +close approach; till it was as if the fate that overtakes all men +were then, even then, knocking at his door. + +In his business Philip prospered. Men praised him because he did +well to himself. He had the perseverance, the capability for +head-work and calculation, the steadiness and general forethought +which might have made him a great merchant if he had lived in a +large city. Without any effort of his own, almost, too, without +Coulson's being aware of it, Philip was now in the position of +superior partner; the one to suggest and arrange, while Coulson only +carried out the plans that emanated from Philip. The whole work of +life was suited to the man: he did not aspire to any different +position, only to the full development of the capabilities of that +which he already held. He had originated several fresh schemes with +regard to the traffic of the shop; and his old masters, with all +their love of tried ways, and distrust of everything new, had been +candid enough to confess that their successors' plans had resulted +in success. 'Their successors.' Philip was content with having the +power when the exercise of it was required, and never named his own +important share in the new improvements. Possibly, if he had, +Coulson's vanity might have taken the alarm, and he might not have +been so acquiescent for the future. As it was, he forgot his own +subordinate share, and always used the imperial 'we', 'we thought', +'it struck us,' &c. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +RESCUED FROM THE WAVES + + +Meanwhile Hester came and went as usual; in so quiet and methodical +a way, with so even and undisturbed a temper, that she was almost +forgotten when everything went well in the shop or household. She +was a star, the brightness of which was only recognized in times of +darkness. She herself was almost surprised at her own increasing +regard for Sylvia. She had not thought she should ever be able to +love the woman who had been such a laggard in acknowledging Philip's +merits; and from all she had ever heard of Sylvia before she came to +know her, from the angry words with which Sylvia had received her +when she had first gone to Haytersbank Farm, Hester had intended to +remain on friendly terms, but to avoid intimacy. But her kindness to +Bell Robson had won both the mother's and daughter's hearts; and in +spite of herself, certainly against her own mother's advice, she had +become the familiar friend and welcome guest of the household. + +Now the very change in Sylvia's whole manner and ways, which grieved +and vexed Philip, made his wife the more attractive to Hester. +Brought up among Quakers, although not one herself, she admired and +respected the staidness and outward peacefulness common amongst the +young women of that sect. Sylvia, whom she had expected to find +volatile, talkative, vain, and wilful, was quiet and still, as if +she had been born a Friend: she seemed to have no will of her own; +she served her mother and child for love; she obeyed her husband in +all things, and never appeared to pine after gaiety or pleasure. And +yet at times Hester thought, or rather a flash came across her mind, +as if all things were not as right as they seemed. Philip looked +older, more care-worn; nay, even Hester was obliged to allow to +herself that she had heard him speak to his wife in sharp, aggrieved +tones. Innocent Hester! she could not understand how the very +qualities she so admired in Sylvia were just what were so foreign to +her nature that the husband, who had known her from a child, felt +what an unnatural restraint she was putting upon herself, and would +have hailed petulant words or wilful actions with an unspeakable +thankfulness for relief. + +One day--it was in the spring of 1798--Hester was engaged to stay to +tea with the Hepburns, in order that after that early meal she might +set to again in helping Philip and Coulson to pack away the winter +cloths and flannels, for which there was no longer any use. The +tea-time was half-past four; about four o'clock a heavy April shower +came on, the hail pattering against the window-panes so as to awaken +Mrs. Robson from her afternoon's nap. She came down the corkscrew +stairs, and found Phoebe in the parlour arranging the tea-things. + +Phoebe and Mrs. Robson were better friends than Phoebe and her young +mistress; and so they began to talk a little together in a +comfortable, familiar way. Once or twice Philip looked in, as if he +would be glad to see the tea-table in readiness; and then Phoebe +would put on a spurt of busy bustle, which ceased almost as soon as +his back was turned, so eager was she to obtain Mrs. Robson's +sympathy in some little dispute that had occurred between her and +the nurse-maid. The latter had misappropriated some hot water, +prepared and required by Phoebe, to the washing of the baby's +clothes; it was a long story, and would have tired the patience of +any one in full possession of their senses; but the details were +just within poor Bell's comprehension, and she was listening with +the greatest sympathy. Both the women were unaware of the lapse of +time; but it was of consequence to Philip, as the extra labour was +not to be begun until after tea, and the daylight hours were +precious. + +At a quarter to five Hester and he came in, and then Phoebe began to +hurry. Hester went up to sit by Bell and talk to her. Philip spoke +to Phoebe in the familiar words of country-folk. Indeed, until his +marriage, Phoebe had always called him by his Christian name, and +had found it very difficult to change it into 'master.' + +'Where's Sylvie?' said he. + +'Gone out wi' t' babby,' replied Phoebe. + +'Why can't Nancy carry it out?' asked Philip. + +It was touching on the old grievance: he was tired, and he spoke +with sharp annoyance. Phoebe might easily have told him the real +state of the case; Nancy was busy at her washing, which would have +been reason enough. But the nursemaid had vexed her, and she did not +like Philip's sharpness, so she only said,-- + +'It's noane o' my business; it's yo' t' look after yo'r own wife and +child; but yo'r but a lad after a'.' + +This was not conciliatory speech, and just put the last stroke to +Philip's fit of ill-temper. + +'I'm not for my tea to-night,' said he, to Hester, when all was +ready. 'Sylvie's not here, and nothing is nice, or as it should be. +I'll go and set to on t' stock-taking. Don't yo' hurry, Hester; stop +and chat a bit with th' old lady.' + +'Nay, Philip,' said Hester, 'thou's sadly tired; just take this cup +o' tea; Sylvia 'll be grieved if yo' haven't something.' + +'Sylvia doesn't care whether I'm full or fasting,' replied he, +impatiently putting aside the cup. 'If she did she'd ha' taken care +to be in, and ha' seen to things being as I like them.' + +Now in general Philip was the least particular of men about meals; +and to do Sylvia justice, she was scrupulously attentive to every +household duty in which old Phoebe would allow her to meddle, and +always careful to see after her husband's comforts. But Philip was +too vexed at her absence to perceive the injustice of what he was +saying, nor was he aware how Bell Robson had been attending to what +he said. But she was sadly discomfited by it, understanding just +enough of the grievance in hand to think that her daughter was +neglectful of those duties which she herself had always regarded as +paramount to all others; nor could Hester convince her that Philip +had not meant what he said; neither could she turn the poor old +woman's thoughts from the words which had caused her distress. + +Presently Sylvia came in, bright and cheerful, although breathless +with hurry. + +'Oh,' said she, taking off her wet shawl, 'we've had to shelter from +such a storm of rain, baby and me--but see! she's none the worse for +it, as bonny as iver, bless her.' + +Hester began some speech of admiration for the child in order to +prevent Bell from delivering the lecture she felt sure was coming +down on the unsuspecting Sylvia; but all in vain. + +'Philip's been complaining on thee, Sylvie,' said Bell, in the way +in which she had spoken to her daughter when she was a little child; +grave and severe in tone and look, more than in words. 'I forget +justly what about, but he spoke on thy neglecting him continual. +It's not right, my lass, it's not right; a woman should--but my +head's very tired, and all I can think on to say is, it's not +right.' + +'Philip been complaining of me, and to mother!' said Sylvia, ready +to burst into tears, so grieved and angry was she. + +'No!' said Hester, 'thy mother has taken it a little too strong; he +were vexed like at his tea not being ready.' + +Sylvia said no more, but the bright colour faded from her cheek, and +the contraction of care returned to her brow. She occupied herself +with taking off her baby's walking things. Hester lingered, anxious +to soothe and make peace; she was looking sorrowfully at Sylvia, +when she saw tears dropping on the baby's cloak, and then it seemed +as if she must speak a word of comfort before going to the +shop-work, where she knew she was expected by both Philip and +Coulson. She poured out a cup of tea, and coming close up to Sylvia, +and kneeling down by her, she whispered,-- + +'Just take him this into t' ware-room; it'll put all to rights if +thou'll take it to him wi' thy own hands.' + +Sylvia looked up, and Hester then more fully saw how she had been +crying. She whispered in reply, for fear of disturbing her mother,-- + +'I don't mind anything but his speaking ill on me to mother. I know +I'm for iver trying and trying to be a good wife to him, an' it's +very dull work; harder than yo' think on, Hester,--an' I would ha' +been home for tea to-night only I was afeared of baby getting wet +wi' t' storm o' hail as we had down on t' shore; and we sheltered +under a rock. It's a weary coming home to this dark place, and to +find my own mother set against me.' + +'Take him his tea, like a good lassie. I'll answer for it he'll be +all right. A man takes it hardly when he comes in tired, a-thinking +his wife '11 be there to cheer him up a bit, to find her off, and +niver know nought of t' reason why.' + +'I'm glad enough I've getten a baby,' said Sylvia, 'but for aught +else I wish I'd niver been married, I do!' + +'Hush thee, lass!' said Hester, rising up indignant; 'now that is a +sin. Eh! if thou only knew the lot o' some folk. But let's talk no +more on that, that cannot be helped; go, take him his tea, for it's +a sad thing to think on him fasting all this time.' + +Hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her change of +position; and the word fasting caught Mrs. Robson's ear, as she sate +at her knitting by the chimney-corner. + +'Fasting? he said thou didn't care if he were full or fasting. +Lassie! it's not right in thee, I say; go, take him his tea at +once.' + +Sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had been suckling, to +Nancy, who having done her washing, had come for her charge, to put +it to bed. Sylvia kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad, +passionate tenderness as she did so. Then she took the cup of tea; +but she said, rather defiantly, to Hester,-- + +'I'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it'll ease her +mind.' + +Then louder to her mother, she added,-- + +'Mother, I'll take him his tea, though I couldn't help the being +out.' + +If the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she was +going to do it was the reverse. Hester followed her slowly into the +ware-room, with intentional delay, thinking that her presence might +be an obstacle to their mutually understanding one another. Sylvia +held the cup and plate of bread and butter out to Philip, but +avoided meeting his eye, and said not a word of explanation, or +regret, or self-justification. If she had spoken, though ever so +crossly, Philip would have been relieved, and would have preferred +it to her silence. He wanted to provoke her to speech, but did not +know how to begin. + +'Thou's been out again wandering on that sea-shore!' said he. She +did not answer him. 'I cannot think what's always taking thee there, +when one would ha' thought a walk up to Esdale would be far more +sheltered, both for thee and baby in such weather as this. Thou'll +be having that baby ill some of these days.' + +At this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved as though she were +going to say something. Oh, how he wished she would, that they might +come to a wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again, and a +tender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence for all his +hasty words, or unreasonable vexation. But she had come resolved not +to speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much emotion. +Only as she was going away she turned and said,-- + +'Philip, mother hasn't many more years to live; dunnot grieve her, +and set her again' me by finding fault wi' me afore her. Our being +wed were a great mistake; but before t' poor old widow woman let us +make as if we were happy.' + +'Sylvie! Sylvie!' he called after her. She must have heard, but she +did not turn. He went after her, and seized her by the arm rather +roughly; she had stung him to the heart with her calm words, which +seemed to reveal a long-formed conviction. + +'Sylvie!' said he, almost fiercely, 'what do yo' mean by what you've +said? Speak! I will have an answer.' + +He almost shook her: she was half frightened by his vehemence of +behaviour, which she took for pure anger, while it was the outburst +of agonized and unrequited love. + +'Let me go! Oh, Philip, yo' hurt me!' + +Just at this moment Hester came up; Philip was ashamed of his +passionate ways in her serene presence, and loosened his grasp of +his wife, and she ran away; ran into her mother's empty room, as to +a solitary place, and there burst into that sobbing, miserable +crying which we instinctively know is too surely lessening the +length of our days on earth to be indulged in often. + +When she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak and quiet for a +time, she listened in dreading expectation of the sound of his +footstep coming in search of her to make friends. But he was +detained below on business, and never came. Instead, her mother came +clambering up the stairs; she was now in the habit of going to bed +between seven and eight, and to-night she was retiring at even an +earlier hour. + +Sylvia sprang up and drew down the window-blind, and made her face +and manner as composed as possible, in order to soothe and comfort +her mother's last waking hours. She helped her to bed with gentle +patience; the restraint imposed upon her by her tender filial love +was good for her, though all the time she was longing to be alone to +have another wild outburst. When her mother was going off to sleep, +Sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. Then she +gazed out at the evening sky, high above the tiled roofs of the +opposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peaceful +heavens took possession of her once more. + +'It's my only comfort,' said she to herself; 'and there's no earthly +harm in it. I would ha' been at home to his tea, if I could; but +when he doesn't want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby is +either in my arms or asleep; why, I'll go any cry my fill out under +yon great quiet sky. I cannot stay in t' house to be choked up wi' +my tears, nor yet to have him coming about me either for scolding or +peace-making.' + +So she put on her things and went out again; this time along the +High Street, and up the long flights of steps towards the parish +church, and there she stood and thought that here she had first met +Kinraid, at Darley's burying, and she tried to recall the very look +of all the sad, earnest faces round the open grave--the whole scene, +in fact; and let herself give way to the miserable regrets she had +so often tried to control. Then she walked on, crying bitterly, +almost unawares to herself; on through the high, bleak fields at the +summit of the cliffs; fields bounded by loose stone fences, and far +from all sight of the habitation of man. But, below, the sea rose +and raged; it was high water at the highest tide, and the wind blew +gustily from the land, vainly combating the great waves that came +invincibly up with a roar and an impotent furious dash against the +base of the cliffs below. + +Sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and rebound of many +waters, like the shock of mighty guns, whenever the other sound of +the blustering gusty wind was lulled for an instant. She was more +quieted by this tempest of the elements than she would have been had +all nature seemed as still as she had imagined it to be while she +was yet in-doors and only saw a part of the serene sky. + +She fixed on a certain point, in her own mind, which she would +reach, and then turn back again. It was where the outline of the +land curved inwards, dipping into a little bay. Here the field-path +she had hitherto followed descended somewhat abruptly to a cluster +of fishermen's cottages, hardly large enough to be called a village; +and then the narrow roadway wound up the rising ground till it again +reached the summit of the cliffs that stretched along the coast for +many and many a mile. + +Sylvia said to herself that she would turn homewards when she came +within sight of this cove,--Headlington Cove, they called it. All +the way along she had met no one since she had left the town, but +just as she had got over the last stile, or ladder of +stepping-stones, into the field from which the path descended, she +came upon a number of people--quite a crowd, in fact; men moving +forward in a steady line, hauling at a rope, a chain, or something +of that kind; boys, children, and women holding babies in their +arms, as if all were fain to come out and partake in some general +interest. + +They kept within a certain distance from the edge of the cliff, and +Sylvia, advancing a little, now saw the reason why. The great cable +the men held was attached to some part of a smack, which could now +be seen by her in the waters below, half dismantled, and all but a +wreck, yet with her deck covered with living men, as far as the +waning light would allow her to see. The vessel strained to get free +of the strong guiding cable; the tide was turning, the wind was +blowing off shore, and Sylvia knew without being told, that almost +parallel to this was a line of sunken rocks that had been fatal to +many a ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner channel +instead of keeping out to sea for miles, and then steering in +straight for Monkshaven port. And the ships that had been thus lost +had been in good plight and order compared to this vessel, which +seemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail. + +By this time, the crowd--the fishermen from the hamlet down below, +with their wives and children--all had come but the bedridden--had +reached the place where Sylvia stood. The women, in a state of wild +excitement, rushed on, encouraging their husbands and sons by words, +even while they hindered them by actions; and, from time to time, +one of them would run to the edge of the cliff and shout out some +brave words of hope in her shrill voice to the crew on the deck +below. Whether these latter heard it or not, no one could tell; but +it seemed as if all human voice must be lost in the tempestuous stun +and tumult of wind and wave. It was generally a woman with a child +in her arms who so employed herself. As the strain upon the cable +became greater, and the ground on which they strove more uneven, +every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women who were +unencumbered held by the dear rope on which so many lives were +depending. On they came, a long line of human beings, black against +the ruddy sunset sky. As they came near Sylvia, a woman cried out,-- + +'Dunnot stand idle, lass, but houd on wi' us; there's many a bonny +life at stake, and many a mother's heart a-hangin' on this bit o' +hemp. Tak' houd, lass, and give a firm grip, and God remember thee +i' thy need.' + +Sylvia needed no second word; a place was made for her, and in an +instant more the rope was pulling against her hands till it seemed +as though she was holding fire in her bare palms. Never a one of +them thought of letting go for an instant, though when all was over +many of their hands were raw and bleeding. Some strong, experienced +fishermen passed a word along the line from time to time, giving +directions as to how it should be held according to varying +occasions; but few among the rest had breath or strength enough to +speak. The women and children that accompanied them ran on before, +breaking down the loose stone fences, so as to obviate delay or +hindrance; they talked continually, exhorting, encouraging, +explaining. From their many words and fragmentary sentences, Sylvia +learnt that the vessel was supposed to be a Newcastle smack sailing +from London, that had taken the dangerous inner channel to save +time, and had been caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to +withstand; and that if by some daring contrivance of the fishermen +who had first seen her the cable had not been got ashore, she would +have been cast upon the rocks before this, and 'all on board +perished'. + +'It were dayleet then,' quoth one woman; 'a could see their faces, +they were so near. They were as pale as dead men, an' one was +prayin' down on his knees. There was a king's officer aboard, for I +saw t' gowd about him.' + +'He'd maybe come from these hom'ard parts, and be comin' to see his +own folk; else it's no common for king's officers to sail in aught +but king's ships.' + +'Eh! but it's gettin' dark! See there's t' leeghts in t' houses in +t' New Town! T' grass is crispin' wi' t' white frost under out feet. +It'll be a hard tug round t' point, and then she'll be gettin' into +still waters.' + +One more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was past; the +vessel--or what remained of her--was in the harbour, among the +lights and cheerful sounds of safety. The fishermen sprang down the +cliff to the quay-side, anxious to see the men whose lives they had +saved; the women, weary and over-excited, began to cry. Not Sylvia, +however; her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day: +her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that they +were saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before. + +She would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands with +them all round. But instead she must go home, and well would it be +with her if she was in time for her husband's supper, and escaped +any notice of her absence. So she separated herself from the groups +of women who sate on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the +return of such of their husbands as could resist the fascinations of +the Monkshaven public houses. As Sylvia went down the church steps, +she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vessel +into port. + +'There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenant +as had comed as passenger. It were a good job as we could manage +her. Good-neet to thee, thou'll sleep all t' sounder for havin' lent +a hand.' + +The street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of +the heights above; the decent shops and houses had all their +shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time. +Already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and +Sylvia scarcely met any one. + +She went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by the +private door. All was still; the basins of bread and milk that she +and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the +fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. Nancy had gone +to bed, Phoebe dozed in the kitchen; Philip was still in the +ware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for +Hester had gone home to her mother. + +Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip, after the manner +in which they had parted. All the despondency of her life became +present to her again as she sate down within her home. She had +forgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came back +again. + +Still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. She took her basin +up, and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her baby +upstairs, and ran away to attend to it. When it had been fed and +hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted by +some unusual noise in her room. + +She found Mrs. Robson awake, and restless, and ailing; dwelling much +on what Philip had said in his anger against Sylvia. It was really +necessary for her daughter to remain with her; so Sylvia stole out, +and went quickly down-stairs to Philip--now sitting tired and worn +out, and eating his supper with little or no appetite--and told him +she meant to pass the night with her mother. + +His answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so it +seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she had +done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of her +mother's indisposition. + +As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down his half-finished +basin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face hidden in his +folded arms. The wick of the candle grew long and black, and fell, +and sputtered, and guttered; he sate on, unheeding either it or the +pale gray fire that was dying out--dead at last. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +AN APPARITION + + +Mrs. Robson was very poorly all night long. Uneasy thoughts seemed +to haunt and perplex her brain, and she neither slept nor woke, but +was restless and uneasy in her talk and movements. + +Sylvia lay down by her, but got so little sleep, that at length she +preferred sitting in the easy-chair by the bedside. Here she dropped +off to slumber in spite of herself; the scene of the evening before +seemed to be repeated; the cries of the many people, the heavy roar +and dash of the threatening waves, were repeated in her ears; and +something was said to her through all the conflicting noises,--what +it was she could not catch, though she strained to hear the hoarse +murmur that, in her dream, she believed to convey a meaning of the +utmost importance to her. + +This dream, that mysterious, only half-intelligible sound, recurred +whenever she dozed, and her inability to hear the words uttered +distressed her so much, that at length she sate bolt upright, +resolved to sleep no more. Her mother was talking in a +half-conscious way; Philip's speech of the evening before was +evidently running in her mind. + +'Sylvie, if thou're not a good wife to him, it'll just break my +heart outright. A woman should obey her husband, and not go her own +gait. I never leave the house wi'out telling father, and getting his +leave.' + +And then she began to cry pitifully, and to say unconnected things, +till Sylvia, to soothe her, took her hand, and promised never to +leave the house without asking her husband's permission, though in +making this promise, she felt as if she were sacrificing her last +pleasure to her mother's wish; for she knew well enough that Philip +would always raise objections to the rambles which reminded her of +her old free open-air life. + +But to comfort and cherish her mother she would have done anything; +yet this very morning that was dawning, she must go and ask his +permission for a simple errand, or break her word. + +She knew from experience that nothing quieted her mother so well as +balm-tea; it might be that the herb really possessed some sedative +power; it might be only early faith, and often repeated experience, +but it had always had a tranquillizing effect; and more than once, +during the restless hours of the night, Mrs. Robson had asked for it; +but Sylvia's stock of last year's dead leaves was exhausted. Still +she knew where a plant of balm grew in the sheltered corner of +Haytersbank Farm garden; she knew that the tenants who had succeeded +them in the occupation of the farm had had to leave it in +consequence of a death, and that the place was unoccupied; and in +the darkness she had planned that if she could leave her mother +after the dawn came, and she had attended to her baby, she would +walk quickly to the old garden, and gather the tender sprigs which +she was sure to find there. + +Now she must go and ask Philip; and till she held her baby to her +breast, she bitterly wished that she were free from the duties and +chains of matrimony. But the touch of its waxen fingers, the hold of +its little mouth, made her relax into docility and gentleness. She +gave it back to Nancy to be dressed, and softly opened the door of +Philip's bed-room. + +'Philip!' said she, gently. 'Philip!' + +He started up from dreams of her; of her, angry. He saw her there, +rather pale with her night's watch and anxiety, but looking meek, +and a little beseeching. + +'Mother has had such a bad night! she fancied once as some balm-tea +would do her good--it allays used to: but my dried balm is all gone, +and I thought there'd be sure to be some in t' old garden at +Haytersbank. Feyther planted a bush just for mother, wheere it +allays came up early, nigh t' old elder-tree; and if yo'd not mind, +I could run theere while she sleeps, and be back again in an hour, +and it's not seven now.' + +'Thou's not wear thyself out with running, Sylvie,' said Philip, +eagerly; 'I'll get up and go myself, or, perhaps,' continued he, +catching the shadow that was coming over her face, 'thou'd rather go +thyself: it's only that I'm so afraid of thy tiring thyself.' + +'It'll not tire me,' said Sylvia. 'Afore I was married, I was out +often far farther than that, afield to fetch up t' kine, before my +breakfast.' + +'Well, go if thou will,' said Philip. 'But get somewhat to eat +first, and don't hurry; there's no need for that.' + +She had got her hat and shawl, and was off before he had finished +his last words. + +The long High Street was almost empty of people at that early hour; +one side was entirely covered by the cool morning shadow which lay +on the pavement, and crept up the opposite houses till only the +topmost story caught the rosy sunlight. Up the hill-road, through +the gap in the stone wall, across the dewy fields, Sylvia went by +the very shortest path she knew. + +She had only once been at Haytersbank since her wedding-day. On that +occasion the place had seemed strangely and dissonantly changed by +the numerous children who were diverting themselves before the open +door, and whose playthings and clothes strewed the house-place, and +made it one busy scene of confusion and untidiness, more like the +Corneys' kitchen in former times, than her mother's orderly and +quiet abode. Those little children were fatherless now; and the +house was shut up, awaiting the entry of some new tenant. There were +no shutters to shut; the long low window was blinking in the rays of +the morning sun; the house and cow-house doors were closed, and no +poultry wandered about the field in search of stray grains of corn, +or early worms. It was a strange and unfamiliar silence, and struck +solemnly on Sylvia's mind. Only a thrush in the old orchard down in +the hollow, out of sight, whistled and gurgled with continual shrill +melody. + +Sylvia went slowly past the house and down the path leading to the +wild, deserted bit of garden. She saw that the last tenants had had +a pump sunk for them, and resented the innovation, as though the +well she was passing could feel the insult. Over it grew two +hawthorn trees; on the bent trunk of one of them she used to sit, +long ago: the charm of the position being enhanced by the possible +danger of falling into the well and being drowned. The rusty unused +chain was wound round the windlass; the bucket was falling to pieces +from dryness. A lean cat came from some outhouse, and mewed +pitifully with hunger; accompanying Sylvia to the garden, as if glad +of some human companionship, yet refusing to allow itself to be +touched. Primroses grew in the sheltered places, just as they +formerly did; and made the uncultivated ground seem less deserted +than the garden, where the last year's weeds were rotting away, and +cumbering the ground. + +Sylvia forced her way through the berry bushes to the herb-plot, and +plucked the tender leaves she had come to seek; sighing a little all +the time. Then she retraced her steps; paused softly before the +house-door, and entered the porch and kissed the senseless wood. + +She tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her arms, meaning to +carry it home and befriend it; but it was scared by her endeavour +and ran back to its home in the outhouse, making a green path across +the white dew of the meadow. Then Sylvia began to hasten home, +thinking, and remembering--at the stile that led into the road she +was brought short up. + +Some one stood in the lane just on the other side of the gap; his +back was to the morning sun; all she saw at first was the uniform of +a naval officer, so well known in Monkshaven in those days. + +Sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, although her +clothes almost brushed his, as he stood there still. She had not +gone a yard--no, not half a yard--when her heart leaped up and fell +again dead within her, as if she had been shot. + +'Sylvia!' he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and passionate +love. 'Sylvia!' + +She looked round; he had turned a little, so that the light fell +straight on his face. It was bronzed, and the lines were +strengthened; but it was the same face she had last seen in +Haytersbank Gully three long years ago, and had never thought to see +in life again. + +He was close to her and held out his fond arms; she went fluttering +towards their embrace, as if drawn by the old fascination; but when +she felt them close round her, she started away, and cried out with +a great pitiful shriek, and put her hands up to her forehead as if +trying to clear away some bewildering mist. + +Then she looked at him once more, a terrible story in her eyes, if +he could but have read it. + +Twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice the words were +overwhelmed by the surges of her misery, which bore them back into +the depths of her heart. + +He thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, and he attempted +to soothe her with soft murmurs of love, and to woo her to his +outstretched hungry arms once more. But when she saw this motion of +his, she made a gesture as though pushing him away; and with an +inarticulate moan of agony she put her hands to her head once more, +and turning away began to run blindly towards the town for +protection. + +For a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at her behaviour; +and then he thought it accounted for by the shock of his accost, and +that she needed time to understand the unexpected joy. So he +followed her swiftly, ever keeping her in view, but not trying to +overtake her too speedily. + +'I have frightened my poor love,' he kept thinking. And by this +thought he tried to repress his impatience and check the speed he +longed to use; yet he was always so near behind that her quickened +sense heard his well-known footsteps following, and a mad notion +flashed across her brain that she would go to the wide full river, +and end the hopeless misery she felt enshrouding her. There was a +sure hiding-place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe +beneath the rushing waters borne landwards by the morning tide. + +No one can tell what changed her course; perhaps the thought of her +sucking child; perhaps her mother; perhaps an angel of God; no one +on earth knows, but as she ran along the quay-side she all at once +turned up an entry, and through an open door. + +He, following all the time, came into a quiet dark parlour, with a +cloth and tea-things on the table ready for breakfast; the change +from the bright sunny air out of doors to the deep shadow of this +room made him think for the first moment that she had passed on, and +that no one was there, and he stood for an instant baffled, and +hearing no sound but the beating of his own heart; but an +irrepressible sobbing gasp made him look round, and there he saw her +cowered behind the door, her face covered tight up, and sharp +shudders going through her whole frame. + +'My love, my darling!' said he, going up to her, and trying to raise +her, and to loosen her hands away from her face. 'I've been too +sudden for thee: it was thoughtless in me; but I have so looked +forward to this time, and seeing thee come along the field, and go +past me, but I should ha' been more tender and careful of thee. Nay! +let me have another look of thy sweet face.' + +All this he whispered in the old tones of manoeuvring love, in that +voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life, and had not +heard, for all her longing, save in her dreams. + +She tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into the hidden +shadow--to sink into the ground out of sight. + +Once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face, to let him +hear her speak. + +But she only moaned. + +'Sylvia!' said he, thinking he could change his tactics, and pique +her into speaking, that he would make a pretence of suspicion and +offence. + +'Sylvia! one would think you weren't glad to see me back again at +length. I only came in late last night, and my first thought on +wakening was of you; it has been ever since I left you.' + +Sylvia took her hands away from her face; it was gray as the face of +death; her awful eyes were passionless in her despair. + +'Where have yo' been?' she asked, in slow, hoarse tones, as if her +voice were half strangled within her. + +'Been!' said he, a red light coming into his eyes, as he bent his +looks upon her; now, indeed, a true and not an assumed suspicion +entering his mind. + +'Been!' he repeated; then, coming a step nearer to her, and taking +her hand, not tenderly this time, but with a resolution to be +satisfied. + +'Did not your cousin--Hepburn, I mean--did not he tell you?--he saw +the press-gang seize me,--I gave him a message to you--I bade you +keep true to me as I would be to you.' + +Between every clause of this speech he paused and gasped for her +answer; but none came. Her eyes dilated and held his steady gaze +prisoner as with a magical charm--neither could look away from the +other's wild, searching gaze. When he had ended, she was silent for +a moment, then she cried out, shrill and fierce,-- + +'Philip!' No answer. + +Wilder and shriller still, 'Philip!' she cried. + +He was in the distant ware-room completing the last night's work +before the regular shop hours began; before breakfast, also, that +his wife might not find him waiting and impatient. + +He heard her cry; it cut through doors, and still air, and great +bales of woollen stuff; he thought that she had hurt herself, that +her mother was worse, that her baby was ill, and he hastened to the +spot whence the cry proceeded. + +On opening the door that separated the shop from the sitting-room, +he saw the back of a naval officer, and his wife on the ground, +huddled up in a heap; when she perceived him come in, she dragged +herself up by means of a chair, groping like a blind person, and +came and stood facing him. + +The officer turned fiercely round, and would have come towards +Philip, who was so bewildered by the scene that even yet he did not +understand who the stranger was, did not perceive for an instant +that he saw the realization of his greatest dread. + +But Sylvia laid her hand on Kinraid's arm, and assumed to herself +the right of speech. Philip did not know her voice, it was so +changed. + +'Philip,' she said, 'this is Kinraid come back again to wed me. He +is alive; he has niver been dead, only taken by t' press-gang. And +he says yo' saw it, and knew it all t' time. Speak, was it so?' + +Philip knew not what to say, whither to turn, under what refuge of +words or acts to shelter. + +Sylvia's influence was keeping Kinraid silent, but he was rapidly +passing beyond it. + +'Speak!' he cried, loosening himself from Sylvia's light grasp, and +coming towards Philip, with a threatening gesture. 'Did I not bid +you tell her how it was? Did I not bid you say how I would be +faithful to her, and she was to be faithful to me? Oh! you damned +scoundrel! have you kept it from her all that time, and let her +think me dead, or false? Take that!' + +His closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his head with +bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach; but Sylvia came swift +between the blow and its victim. + +'Charley, thou shan't strike him,' she said. 'He is a damned +scoundrel' (this was said in the hardest, quietest tone) 'but he is +my husband.' + +'Oh! thou false heart!' exclaimed Kinraid, turning sharp on her. 'If +ever I trusted woman, I trusted you, Sylvia Robson.' + +He made as though throwing her from him, with a gesture of contempt +that stung her to life. + +'Oh, Charley!' she cried, springing to him, 'dunnot cut me to the +quick; have pity on me, though he had none. I did so love thee; it +was my very heart-strings as gave way when they told me thou was +drowned--feyther, and th' Corneys, and all, iverybody. Thy hat and +t' bit o' ribbon I gave thee were found drenched and dripping wi' +sea-water; and I went mourning for thee all the day long--dunnot +turn away from me; only hearken this once, and then kill me dead, +and I'll bless yo',--and have niver been mysel' since; niver ceased +to feel t' sun grow dark and th' air chill and dreary when I thought +on t' time when thou was alive. I did, my Charley, my own love! And +I thought thou was dead for iver, and I wished I were lying beside +thee. Oh, Charley! Philip, theere, where he stands, could tell yo' +this was true. Philip, wasn't it so?' + +'Would God I were dead!' moaned forth the unhappy, guilty man. But +she had turned to Kinraid, and was speaking again to him, and +neither of them heard or heeded him--they were drawing closer and +closer together--she, with her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking +eagerly. + +'And feyther was taken up, and all for setting some free as t' +press-gang had gotten by a foul trick; and he were put i' York +prison, and tried, and hung!--hung! Charley!--good kind feyther was +hung on a gallows; and mother lost her sense and grew silly in +grief, and we were like to be turned out on t' wide world, and poor +mother dateless--and I thought yo' were dead--oh! I thought yo' were +dead, I did--oh, Charley, Charley!' + +By this time they were in each other's arms, she with her head on +his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break. + +Philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her away; but +Charley held her tight, mutely defying Philip. Unconsciously she was +Philip's protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might +have been his death if strong will could have aided it to kill. + +'Sylvie!' said he, grasping her tight. 'Listen to me. He didn't love +yo' as I did. He had loved other women. I, yo'--yo' alone. He loved +other girls before yo', and had left off loving 'em. I--I wish God +would free my heart from the pang; but it will go on till I die, +whether yo' love me or not. And then--where was I? Oh! that very +night that he was taken, I was a-thinking on yo' and on him; and I +might ha' given yo' his message, but I heard them speaking of him as +knew him well; talking of his false fickle ways. How was I to know +he would keep true to thee? It might be a sin in me, I cannot say; +my heart and my sense are gone dead within me. I know this, I've +loved yo' as no man but me ever loved before. Have some pity and +forgiveness on me, if it's only because I've been so tormented with +my love.' + +He looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it faded away into +despair as she made no sign of having even heard his words. He let +go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side. + +'I may die,' he said, 'for my life is ended!' + +'Sylvia!' spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent, 'your marriage is no +marriage. You were tricked into it. You are my wife, not his. I am +your husband; we plighted each other our troth. See! here is my half +of the sixpence.' + +He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his +neck. + +'When they stripped me and searched me in th' French prison, I +managed to keep this. No lies can break the oath we swore to each +other. I can get your pretence of a marriage set aside. I'm in +favour with my admiral, and he'll do a deal for me, and back me out. +Come with me; your marriage shall be set aside, and we'll be married +again, all square and above-board. Come away. Leave that damned +fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest sailor; we'll be +true, whatever has come and gone. Come, Sylvia.' + +His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the +door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. Just then the +baby cried. + +'Hark!' said she, starting away from Kinraid, 'baby's crying for me. +His child--yes, it is his child--I'd forgotten that--forgotten all. +I'll make my vow now, lest I lose mysel' again. I'll never forgive +yon man, nor live with him as his wife again. All that's done and +ended. He's spoilt my life,--he's spoilt it for as long as iver I +live on this earth; but neither yo' nor him shall spoil my soul. It +goes hard wi' me, Charley, it does indeed. I'll just give yo' one +kiss--one little kiss--and then, so help me God, I'll niver see nor +hear till--no, not that, not that is needed--I'll niver see--sure +that's enough--I'll never see yo' again on this side heaven, so help +me God! I'm bound and tied, but I've sworn my oath to him as well as +yo': there's things I will do, and there's things I won't. Kiss me +once more. God help me, he's gone!' + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +A RECKLESS RECRUIT + + +She lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched out, her face +unseen. Every now and then a thrill ran through her body: she was +talking to herself all the time with incessant low incontinence of +words. + +Philip stood near her, motionless: he did not know whether she was +conscious of his presence; in fact, he knew nothing but that he and +she were sundered for ever; he could only take in that one idea, and +it numbed all other thought. + +Once more her baby cried for the comfort she alone could give. + +She rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to walk; her +glazed eyes fell upon Philip as he instinctively made a step to hold +her steady. No light came into her eyes any more than if she had +looked upon a perfect stranger; not even was there the contraction +of dislike. Some other figure filled her mind, and she saw him no +more than she saw the inanimate table. That way of looking at him +withered him up more than any sign of aversion would have done. + +He watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and vanish out of +sight; and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme bodily +weakness. + +The door of communication between the parlour and the shop was +opened. That was the first event of which Philip took note; but +Phoebe had come in unawares to him, with the intention of removing +the breakfast things on her return from market, and seeing them +unused, and knowing that Sylvia had sate up all night with her +mother, she had gone back to the kitchen. Philip had neither seen +nor heard her. + +Now Coulson came in, amazed at Hepburn's non-appearance in the shop. + +'Why! Philip, what's ado? How ill yo' look, man!' exclaimed he, +thoroughly alarmed by Philip's ghastly appearance. 'What's the +matter?' + +'I!' said Philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. 'Why should there +be anything the matter?' + +His instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him shrink from +his misery being noticed, much more made any subject for explanation +or sympathy. + +'There may be nothing the matter wi' thee,' said Coulson, 'but +thou's the look of a corpse on thy face. I was afeared something was +wrong, for it's half-past nine, and thee so punctual!' + +He almost guarded Philip into the shop, and kept furtively watching +him, and perplexing himself with Philip's odd, strange ways. + +Hester, too, observed the heavy broken-down expression on Philip's +ashen face, and her heart ached for him; but after that first +glance, which told her so much, she avoided all appearance of +noticing or watching. Only a shadow brooded over her sweet, calm +face, and once or twice she sighed to herself. + +It was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing their store +of gossip from the country, or the town--from the farm or the +quay-side. + +Among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the night before +furnished a large topic; and by-and-by Philip heard a name that +startled him into attention. + +The landlady of a small public-house much frequented by sailors was +talking to Coulson. + +'There was a sailor aboard of her as knowed Kinraid by sight, in +Shields, years ago; and he called him by his name afore they were +well out o' t' river. And Kinraid was no ways set up, for all his +lieutenant's uniform (and eh! but they say he looks handsome in +it!); but he tells 'm all about it--how he was pressed aboard a +man-o'-war, an' for his good conduct were made a warrant officer, +boatswain, or something!' + +All the people in the shop were listening now; Philip alone seemed +engrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as to leave no possible +chance of creases in it; yet he lost not a syllable of the good +woman's narration. + +She, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had attracted, went +on with fresh vigour. + +'An' there's a gallant captain, one Sir Sidney Smith, and he'd a +notion o' goin' smack into a French port, an' carryin' off a vessel +from right under their very noses; an' says he, "Which of yo' +British sailors 'll go along with me to death or glory?" So Kinraid +stands up like a man, an' "I'll go with yo', captain," he says. So +they, an' some others as brave, went off, an' did their work, an' +choose whativer it was, they did it famously; but they got caught by +them French, an' were clapped into prison i' France for iver so +long; but at last one Philip--Philip somethin' (he were a Frenchman, +I know)--helped 'em to escape, in a fishin'-boat. But they were +welcomed by th' whole British squadron as was i' t' Channel for t' +piece of daring they'd done i' cuttin' out t' ship from a French +port; an' Captain Sir Sidney Smith was made an admiral, an' him as +we used t' call Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, is made a +lieutenant, an' a commissioned officer i' t' King's service; and is +come to great glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night as +is just past!' + +A murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed all around +Philip. All this was publicly known about Kinraid,--and how much +more? All Monkshaven might hear tomorrow--nay, to-day--of Philip's +treachery to the hero of the hour; how he had concealed his fate, +and supplanted him in his love. + +Philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which he knew +must follow. Any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the +people's favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury; +and among a primitive set of country-folk, who recognize the wild +passion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason and +self-restraint, any story of baulked affections, or treachery in +such matters, spreads like wildfire. + +Philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain before +him, if only Kinraid spoke the word. His head was bent down while he +thus listened and reflected. He half resolved on doing something; he +lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the little +strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look +at themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved. + +The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face, +made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning's +events. He saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with +something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as he +remembered the square, upright build of Kinraid; his fine uniform, +with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his dark +eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his white +teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn. + +The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness to active +despair. + +He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and +on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless +of Phoebe's look and words, began to eat it before he even left the +place; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed it +to carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might +hear what he had done, and point their fingers at him. + +He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tight +together, he went upstairs. + +First of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs, +in which his baby slept. He dearly loved the child, and many a time +would run in and play a while with it; and in such gambols he and +Sylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life. + +The little Bella was having her morning slumber; Nancy used to tell +long afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was so +strange she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh upon +eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayers +when they got up, and when they went to bed. + +Then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long, +lingering, soft, fond kiss. And on tip-toe he passed away into the +room where his aunt lay; his aunt who had been so true a friend to +him! He was thankful to know that in her present state she was safe +from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of the +shame to come. + +He had not meant to see Sylvia again; he dreaded the look of her +hatred, her scorn, but there, outside her mother's bed, she lay, +apparently asleep. Mrs. Robson, too, was sleeping, her face towards +the wall. Philip could not help it; he went to have one last look at +his wife. She was turned towards her mother, her face averted from +him; he could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet +quivering: he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand that +lay listless by her side. As his hot breath neared that hand it was +twitched away, and a shiver ran through the whole prostrate body. +And then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by her +misery,--misery that he had caused. + +He sighed heavily; but he went away, down-stairs, and away for ever. +Only as he entered the parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes, +one of himself, one of Sylvia, done in the first month of their +marriage, by some wandering artist, if so he could be called. They +were hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames; black +profiles, with the lights done in gold; about as poor semblances of +humanity as could be conceived; but Philip went up, and after +looking for a minute or so at Sylvia's, he took it down, and +buttoned his waistcoat over it. + +It was the only thing he took away from his home. + +He went down the entry on to the quay. The river was there, and +waters, they say, have a luring power, and a weird promise of rest +in their perpetual monotony of sound. But many people were there, if +such a temptation presented itself to Philip's mind; the sight of +his fellow-townsmen, perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him up +another entry--the town is burrowed with such--back into the High +Street, which he straightway crossed into a well-known court, out of +which rough steps led to the summit of the hill, and on to the fells +and moors beyond. + +He plunged and panted up this rough ascent. From the top he could +look down on the whole town lying below, severed by the bright +shining river into two parts. To the right lay the sea, shimmering +and heaving; there were the cluster of masts rising out of the +little port; the irregular roofs of the houses; which of them, +thought he, as he carried his eye along the quay-side to the +market-place, which of them was his? and he singled it out in its +unfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke rising from the +kitchen chimney, where even now Phoebe was cooking the household +meal that he never more must share. + +Up at that thought and away, he knew not nor cared not whither. He +went through the ploughed fields where the corn was newly springing; +he came down upon the vast sunny sea, and turned his back upon it +with loathing; he made his way inland to the high green pastures; +the short upland turf above which the larks hung poised 'at heaven's +gate'. He strode along, so straight and heedless of briar and bush, +that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, and looked after him +with their great blank puzzled eyes. + +He had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, and was fairly on +the desolate brown moors; through the withered last year's ling and +fern, through the prickly gorse, he tramped, crushing down the +tender shoots of this year's growth, and heedless of the startled +plover's cry, goaded by the furies. His only relief from thought, +from the remembrance of Sylvia's looks and words, was in violent +bodily action. + +So he went on till evening shadows and ruddy evening lights came out +upon the wild fells. + +He had crossed roads and lanes, with a bitter avoidance of men's +tracks; but now the strong instinct of self-preservation came out, +and his aching limbs, his weary heart, giving great pants and beats +for a time, and then ceasing altogether till a mist swam and +quivered before his aching eyes, warned him that he must find some +shelter and food, or lie down to die. He fell down now, often; +stumbling over the slightest obstacle. He had passed the cattle +pastures; he was among the black-faced sheep; and they, too, ceased +nibbling, and looked after him, and somehow, in his poor wandering +imagination, their silly faces turned to likenesses of Monkshaven +people--people who ought to be far, far away. + +'Thou'll be belated on these fells, if thou doesn't tak' heed,' +shouted some one. + +Philip looked abroad to see whence the voice proceeded. + +An old stiff-legged shepherd, in a smock-frock, was within a couple +of hundred yards. Philip did not answer, but staggered and stumbled +towards him. + +'Good lork!' said the man, 'wheere hast ta been? Thou's seen Oud +Harry, I think, thou looks so scared.' + +Philip rallied himself, and tried to speak up to the old standard of +respectability; but the effort was pitiful to see, had any one been +by, who could have understood the pain it caused to restrain cries +of bodily and mental agony. + +'I've lost my way, that's all.' + +''Twould ha' been enough, too, I'm thinkin', if I hadn't come out +after t' ewes. There's t' Three Griffins near at hand: a sup o' +Hollands 'll set thee to reeghts.' + +Philip followed faintly. He could not see before him, and was guided +by the sound of footsteps rather than by the sight of the figure +moving onwards. He kept stumbling; and he knew that the old shepherd +swore at him; but he also knew such curses proceeded from no +ill-will, only from annoyance at the delay in going and 'seem' after +t' ewes.' But had the man's words conveyed the utmost expression of +hatred, Philip would neither have wondered at them, nor resented +them. + +They came into a wild mountain road, unfenced from the fells. A +hundred yards off, and there was a small public-house, with a broad +ruddy oblong of firelight shining across the tract. + +'Theere!' said the old man. 'Thee cannot well miss that. A dunno +tho', thee bees sich a gawby.' + +So he went on, and delivered Philip safely up to the landlord. + +'Here's a felly as a fund on t' fell side, just as one as if he were +drunk; but he's sober enough, a reckon, only summat's wrong i' his +head, a'm thinkin'.' + +'No!' said Philip, sitting down on the first chair he came to. 'I'm +right enough; just fairly wearied out: lost my way,' and he fainted. + +There was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting in the +house-place, drinking. He, too, like Philip, had lost his way; but +was turning his blunder to account by telling all manner of +wonderful stories to two or three rustics who had come in ready to +drink on any pretence; especially if they could get good liquor +without paying for it. + +The sergeant rose as Philip fell back, and brought up his own mug of +beer, into which a noggin of gin had been put (called in Yorkshire +'dog's-nose'). He partly poured and partly spilt some of this +beverage on Philip's face; some drops went through the pale and +parted lips, and with a start the worn-out man revived. + +'Bring him some victual, landlord,' called out the recruiting +sergeant. 'I'll stand shot.' + +They brought some cold bacon and coarse oat-cake. The sergeant asked +for pepper and salt; minced the food fine and made it savoury, and +kept administering it by teaspoonfuls; urging Philip to drink from +time to time from his own cup of dog's-nose. + +A burning thirst, which needed no stimulant from either pepper or +salt, took possession of Philip, and he drank freely, scarcely +recognizing what he drank. It took effect on one so habitually +sober; and he was soon in that state when the imagination works +wildly and freely. + +He saw the sergeant before him, handsome, and bright, and active, in +his gay red uniform, without a care, as it seemed to Philip, taking +life lightly; admired and respected everywhere because of his cloth. + +If Philip were gay, and brisk, well-dressed like him, returning with +martial glory to Monkshaven, would not Sylvia love him once more? +Could not he win her heart? He was brave by nature, and the prospect +of danger did not daunt him, if ever it presented itself to his +imagination. + +He thought he was cautious in entering on the subject of enlistment +with his new friend, the sergeant; but the latter was twenty times +as cunning as he, and knew by experience how to bait his hook. + +Philip was older by some years than the regulation age; but, at that +time of great demand for men, the question of age was lightly +entertained. The sergeant was profuse in statements of the +advantages presented to a man of education in his branch of the +service; how such a one was sure to rise; in fact, it would have +seemed from the sergeant's account, as though the difficulty +consisted in remaining in the ranks. + +Philip's dizzy head thought the subject over and over again, each +time with failing power of reason. + +At length, almost, as it would seem, by some sleight of hand, he +found the fatal shilling in his palm, and had promised to go before +the nearest magistrate to be sworn in as one of his Majesty's +marines the next morning. And after that he remembered nothing more. + +He wakened up in a little truckle-bed in the same room as the +sergeant, who lay sleeping the sleep of full contentment; while +gradually, drop by drop, the bitter recollections of the day before +came, filling up Philip's cup of agony. + +He knew that he had received the bounty-money; and though he was +aware that he had been partly tricked into it, and had no hope, no +care, indeed, for any of the advantages so liberally promised him +the night before, yet he was resigned, with utterly despondent +passiveness, to the fate to which he had pledged himself. Anything +was welcome that severed him from his former life, that could make +him forget it, if that were possible; and also welcome anything +which increased the chances of death without the sinfulness of his +own participation in the act. He found in the dark recess of his +mind the dead body of his fancy of the previous night; that he might +come home, handsome and glorious, to win the love that had never +been his. + +But he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of his sight--so +full of despair was he. He could eat no breakfast, though the +sergeant ordered of the best. The latter kept watching his new +recruit out of the corner of his eye, expecting a remonstrance, or +dreading a sudden bolt. + +But Philip walked with him the two or three miles in the most +submissive silence, never uttering a syllable of regret or +repentance; and before Justice Cholmley, of Holm-Fell Hall, he was +sworn into his Majesty's service, under the name of Stephen Freeman. +With a new name, he began a new life. Alas! the old life lives for +ever! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +THINGS UNUTTERABLE + + +After Philip had passed out of the room, Sylvia lay perfectly still, +from very exhaustion. Her mother slept on, happily unconscious of +all the turmoil that had taken place; yes, happily, though the heavy +sleep was to end in death. But of this her daughter knew nothing, +imagining that it was refreshing slumber, instead of an ebbing of +life. Both mother and daughter lay motionless till Phoebe entered +the room to tell Sylvia that dinner was on the table. + +Then Sylvia sate up, and put back her hair, bewildered and uncertain +as to what was to be done next; how she should meet the husband to +whom she had discarded all allegiance, repudiated the solemn promise +of love and obedience which she had vowed. + +Phoebe came into the room, with natural interest in the invalid, +scarcely older than herself. + +'How is t' old lady?' asked she, in a low voice. + +Sylvia turned her head round to look; her mother had never moved, +but was breathing in a loud uncomfortable manner, that made her +stoop over her to see the averted face more nearly. + +'Phoebe!' she cried, 'come here! She looks strange and odd; her eyes +are open, but don't see me. Phoebe! Phoebe!' + +'Sure enough, she's in a bad way!' said Phoebe, climbing stiffly on +to the bed to have a nearer view. 'Hold her head a little up t' ease +her breathin' while I go for master; he'll be for sendin' for t' +doctor, I'll be bound.' + +Sylvia took her mother's head and laid it fondly on her breast, +speaking to her and trying to rouse her; but it was of no avail: the +hard, stertorous breathing grew worse and worse. + +Sylvia cried out for help; Nancy came, the baby in her arms. They +had been in several times before that morning; and the child came +smiling and crowing at its mother, who was supporting her own dying +parent. + +'Oh, Nancy!' said Sylvia; 'what is the matter with mother? yo' can +see her face; tell me quick!' + +Nancy set the baby on the bed for all reply, and ran out of the +room, crying out, + +'Master! master! Come quick! T' old missus is a-dying!' + +This appeared to be no news to Sylvia, and yet the words came on her +with a great shock, but for all that she could not cry; she was +surprised herself at her own deadness of feeling. + +Her baby crawled to her, and she had to hold and guard both her +mother and her child. It seemed a long, long time before any one +came, and then she heard muffled voices, and a heavy tramp: it was +Phoebe leading the doctor upstairs, and Nancy creeping in behind to +hear his opinion. + +He did not ask many questions, and Phoebe replied more frequently to +his inquiries than did Sylvia, who looked into his face with a +blank, tearless, speechless despair, that gave him more pain than +the sight of her dying mother. + +The long decay of Mrs. Robson's faculties and health, of which he was +well aware, had in a certain manner prepared him for some such +sudden termination of the life whose duration was hardly desirable, +although he gave several directions as to her treatment; but the +white, pinched face, the great dilated eye, the slow comprehension +of the younger woman, struck him with alarm; and he went on asking +for various particulars, more with a view of rousing Sylvia, if even +it were to tears, than for any other purpose that the information +thus obtained could answer. + +'You had best have pillows propped up behind her--it will not be +for long; she does not know that you are holding her, and it is only +tiring you to no purpose!' + +Sylvia's terrible stare continued: he put his advice into action, +and gently tried to loosen her clasp, and tender hold. This she +resisted; laying her cheek against her poor mother's unconscious +face. + +'Where is Hepburn?' said he. 'He ought to be here!' + +Phoebe looked at Nancy, Nancy at Phoebe. It was the latter who +replied, + +'He's neither i' t' house nor i' t' shop. A seed him go past t' +kitchen window better nor an hour ago; but neither William Coulson +or Hester Rose knows where he's gone to. + +Dr Morgan's lips were puckered up into a whistle, but he made no +sound. + +'Give me baby!' he said, suddenly. Nancy had taken her up off the +bed where she had been sitting, encircled by her mother's arm. The +nursemaid gave her to the doctor. He watched the mother's eye, it +followed her child, and he was rejoiced. He gave a little pinch to +the baby's soft flesh, and she cried out piteously; again the same +action, the same result. Sylvia laid her mother down, and stretched +out her arms for her child, hushing it, and moaning over it. + +'So far so good!' said Dr Morgan to himself. 'But where is the +husband? He ought to be here.' He went down-stairs to make inquiry +for Philip; that poor young creature, about whose health he had +never felt thoroughly satisfied since the fever after her +confinement, was in an anxious condition, and with an inevitable +shock awaiting her. Her husband ought to be with her, and supporting +her to bear it. + +Dr Morgan went into the shop. Hester alone was there. Coulson had +gone to his comfortable dinner at his well-ordered house, with his +common-place wife. If he had felt anxious about Philip's looks and +strange disappearance, he had also managed to account for them in +some indifferent way. + +Hester was alone with the shop-boy; few people came in during the +universal Monkshaven dinner-hour. She was resting her head on her +hand, and puzzled and distressed about many things--all that was +implied by the proceedings of the evening before between Philip and +Sylvia; and that was confirmed by Philip's miserable looks and +strange abstracted ways to-day. Oh! how easy Hester would have found +it to make him happy! not merely how easy, but what happiness it +would have been to her to merge her every wish into the one great +object of fulfiling his will. To her, an on-looker, the course of +married life, which should lead to perfect happiness, seemed to +plain! Alas! it is often so! and the resisting forces which make all +such harmony and delight impossible are not recognized by the +bystanders, hardly by the actors. But if these resisting forces are +only superficial, or constitutional, they are but the necessary +discipline here, and do not radically affect the love which will +make all things right in heaven. + +Some glimmering of this latter comforting truth shed its light on +Hester's troubled thoughts from time to time. But again, how easy +would it have been to her to tread the maze that led to Philip's +happiness; and how difficult it seemed to the wife he had chosen! + +She was aroused by Dr Morgan's voice. + +'So both Coulson and Hepburn have left the shop to your care, +Hester. I want Hepburn, though; his wife is in a very anxious state. +Where is he? can you tell me?' + +'Sylvia in an anxious state! I've not seen her to-day, but last +night she looked as well as could be.' + +'Ay, ay; but many a thing happens in four-and-twenty hours. Her +mother is dying, may be dead by this time; and her husband should be +there with her. Can't you send for him?' + +'I don't know where he is,' said Hester. 'He went off from here all +on a sudden, when there was all the market-folks in t' shop; I +thought he'd maybe gone to John Foster's about th' money, for they +was paying a deal in. I'll send there and inquire.' + +No! the messenger brought back word that he had not been seen at +their bank all morning. Further inquiries were made by the anxious +Hester, by the doctor, by Coulson; all they could learn was that +Phoebe had seen him pass the kitchen window about eleven o'clock, +when she was peeling the potatoes for dinner; and two lads playing +on the quay-side thought they had seen him among a group of sailors; +but these latter, as far as they could be identified, had no +knowledge of his appearance among them. + +Before night the whole town was excited about his disappearance. +Before night Bell Robson had gone to her long home. And Sylvia still +lay quiet and tearless, apparently more unmoved than any other +creature by the events of the day, and the strange vanishing of her +husband. + +The only thing she seemed to care for was her baby; she held it +tight in her arms, and Dr Morgan bade them leave it there, its touch +might draw the desired tears into her weary, sleepless eyes, and +charm the aching pain out of them. + +They were afraid lest she should inquire for her husband, whose +non-appearance at such a time of sorrow to his wife must (they +thought) seem strange to her. And night drew on while they were all +in this state. She had gone back to her own room without a word when +they had desired her to do so; caressing her child in her arms, and +sitting down on the first chair she came to, with a heavy sigh, as +if even this slight bodily exertion had been too much for her. They +saw her eyes turn towards the door every time it was opened, and +they thought it was with anxious expectation of one who could not be +found, though many were seeking for him in all probable places. + +When night came some one had to tell her of her husband's +disappearance; and Dr Morgan was the person who undertook this. + +He came into her room about nine o'clock; her baby was sleeping in +her arms; she herself pale as death, still silent and tearless, +though strangely watchful of gestures and sounds, and probably +cognizant of more than they imagined. + +'Well, Mrs. Hepburn,' said he, as cheerfully as he could, 'I should +advise your going to bed early; for I fancy your husband won't come +home to-night. Some journey or other, that perhaps Coulson can +explain better than I can, will most likely keep him away till +to-morrow. It's very unfortunate that he should be away at such a +sad time as this, as I'm sure he'll feel when he returns; but we +must make the best of it.' + +He watched her to see the effect of his words. + +She sighed, that was all. He still remained a little while. She +lifted her head up a little and asked, + +'How long do yo' think she was unconscious, doctor? Could she hear +things, think yo', afore she fell into that strange kind o' +slumber?' + +'I cannot tell,' said he, shaking his head. 'Was she breathing in +that hard snoring kind of way when you left her this morning?' + +'Yes, I think so; I cannot tell, so much has happened.' + +'When you came back to her, after your breakfast, I think you said +she was in much the same position?' + +'Yes, and yet I may be telling yo' lies; if I could but think: but +it's my head as is aching so; doctor, I wish yo'd go, for I need +being alone, I'm so mazed.' + +'Good-night, then, for you're a wise woman, I see, and mean to go to +bed, and have a good night with baby there.' + +But he went down to Phoebe, and told her to go in from time to time, +and see how her mistress was. + +He found Hester Rose and the old servant together; both had been +crying, both were evidently in great trouble about the death and the +mystery of the day. + +Hester asked if she might go up and see Sylvia, and the doctor gave +his leave, talking meanwhile with Phoebe over the kitchen fire. +Hester came down again without seeing Sylvia. The door of the room +was bolted, and everything quiet inside. + +'Does she know where her husband is, think you?' asked the doctor at +this account of Hester's. 'She's not anxious about him at any rate: +or else the shock of her mother's death has been too much for her. +We must hope for some change in the morning; a good fit of crying, +or a fidget about her husband, would be more natural. Good-night to +you both,' and off he went. + +Phoebe and Hester avoided looking at each other at these words. Both +were conscious of the probability of something having gone seriously +wrong between the husband and wife. Hester had the recollection of +the previous night, Phoebe the untasted breakfast of to-day to go +upon. + +She spoke first. + +'A just wish he'd come home to still folks' tongues. It need niver +ha' been known if t' old lady hadn't died this day of all others. +It's such a thing for t' shop t' have one o' t' partners missin', +an' no one for t' know what's comed on him. It niver happened i' +Fosters' days, that's a' I know.' + +'He'll maybe come back yet,' said Hester. 'It's not so very late.' + +'It were market day, and a',' continued Phoebe, 'just as if +iverything mun go wrong together; an' a' t' country customers'll go +back wi' fine tale i' their mouths, as Measter Hepburn was strayed +an' missin' just like a beast o' some kind.' + +'Hark! isn't that a step?' said Hester suddenly, as a footfall +sounded in the now quiet street; but it passed the door, and the +hope that had arisen on its approach fell as the sound died away. + +'He'll noane come to-night,' said Phoebe, who had been as eager a +listener as Hester, however. 'Thou'd best go thy ways home; a shall +stay up, for it's not seemly for us a' t' go to our beds, an' a +corpse in t' house; an' Nancy, as might ha' watched, is gone to her +bed this hour past, like a lazy boots as she is. A can hear, too, if +t' measter does come home; tho' a'll be bound he wunnot; choose +wheere he is, he'll be i' bed by now, for it's well on to eleven. +I'll let thee out by t' shop-door, and stand by it till thou's close +at home, for it's ill for a young woman to be i' t' street so late.' + +So she held the door open, and shaded the candle from the flickering +outer air, while Hester went to her home with a heavy heart. + +Heavily and hopelessly did they all meet in the morning. No news of +Philip, no change in Sylvia; an unceasing flow of angling and +conjecture and gossip radiating from the shop into the town. + +Hester could have entreated Coulson on her knees to cease from +repeating the details of a story of which every word touched on a +raw place in her sensitive heart; moreover, when they talked +together so eagerly, she could not hear the coming footsteps on the +pavement without. + +Once some one hit very near the truth in a chance remark. + +'It seems strange,' she said, 'how as one man turns up, another just +disappears. Why, it were but upo' Tuesday as Kinraid come back, as +all his own folk had thought to be dead; and next day here's Measter +Hepburn as is gone no one knows wheere!' + +'That's t' way i' this world,' replied Coulson, a little +sententiously. 'This life is full o' changes o' one kind or another; +them that's dead is alive; and as for poor Philip, though he was +alive, he looked fitter to be dead when he came into t' shop o' +Wednesday morning.' + +'And how does she take it?' nodding to where Sylvia was supposed to +be. + +'Oh! she's not herself, so to say. She were just stunned by finding +her mother was dying in her very arms when she thought as she were +only sleeping; yet she's never been able to cry a drop; so that t' +sorrow's gone inwards on her brain, and from all I can hear, she +doesn't rightly understand as her husband is missing. T' doctor says +if she could but cry, she'd come to a juster comprehension of +things.' + +'And what do John and Jeremiah Foster say to it all?' + +'They're down here many a time in t' day to ask if he's come back, +or how she is; for they made a deal on 'em both. They're going t' +attend t' funeral to-morrow, and have given orders as t' shop is to +be shut up in t' morning.' + +To the surprise of every one, Sylvia, who had never left her room +since the night of her mother's death, and was supposed to be almost +unconscious of all that was going on in the house, declared her +intention of following her mother to the grave. No one could do more +than remonstrate: no one had sufficient authority to interfere with +her. Dr Morgan even thought that she might possibly be roused to +tears by the occasion; only he begged Hester to go with her, that +she might have the solace of some woman's company. + +She went through the greater part of the ceremony in the same hard, +unmoved manner in which she had received everything for days past. + +But on looking up once, as they formed round the open grave, she saw +Kester, in his Sunday clothes, with a bit of new crape round his +hat, crying as if his heart would break over the coffin of his good, +kind mistress. + +His evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly loosed the +fountain of Sylvia's tears, and her sobs grew so terrible that +Hester feared she would not be able to remain until the end of the +funeral. But she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she +made an effort to go round by the place where Kester stood. + +'Come and see me,' was all she could say for crying: and Kester only +nodded his head--he could not speak a word. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS + + +That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door. +Phoebe opened it. He asked to see Sylvia. + +'A know not if she'll see thee,' said Phoebe. 'There's no makin' her +out; sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another.' + +'She bid me come and see her,' said Kester. 'Only this mornin', at +missus' buryin', she telled me to come.' + +So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was there; and +returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour. An +instant after he was gone, Phoebe heard him return, and carefully +shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and +sitting-room. + +Sylvia was in the latter when Kester came in, holding her baby close +to her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else, +making Nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to Phoebe's indignation. + +Sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes alone +retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. She went up to +Kester, and shook his horny hand, she herself trembling all over. + +'Don't talk to me of her,' she said hastily. 'I cannot stand it. +It's a blessing for her to be gone, but, oh----' + +She began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and swallowed down +her sobs. + +'Kester,' she went on, hastily, 'Charley Kinraid isn't dead; dost ta +know? He's alive, and he were here o' Tuesday--no, Monday, was it? I +cannot tell--but he were here!' + +'A knowed as he weren't dead. Every one is a-speaking on it. But a +didn't know as thee'd ha' seen him. A took comfort i' thinkin' as +thou'd ha' been wi' thy mother a' t' time as he were i' t' place.' + +'Then he's gone?' said Sylvia. + +'Gone; ay, days past. As far as a know, he but stopped a' neet. A +thought to mysel' (but yo' may be sure a said nought to nobody), +he's heerd as our Sylvia were married, and has put it in his pipe, +and ta'en hissel' off to smoke it.' + +'Kester!' said Sylvia, leaning forwards, and whispering. 'I saw him. +He was here. Philip saw him. Philip had known as he wasn't dead a' +this time!' + +Kester stood up suddenly. + +'By goom, that chap has a deal t' answer for.' + +A bright red spot was on each of Sylvia's white cheeks; and for a +minute or so neither of them spoke. + +Then she went on, still whispering out her words. + +'Kester, I'm more afeared than I dare tell any one: can they ha' +met, think yo'? T' very thought turns me sick. I told Philip my +mind, and took a vow again' him--but it would be awful to think on +harm happening to him through Kinraid. Yet he went out that morning, +and has niver been seen or heard on sin'; and Kinraid were just fell +again' him, and as for that matter, so was I; but----' + +The red spot vanished as she faced her own imagination. + +Kester spoke. + +'It's a thing as can be easy looked into. What day an' time were it +when Philip left this house?' + +'Tuesday--the day she died. I saw him in her room that morning +between breakfast and dinner; I could a'most swear to it's being +close after eleven. I mind counting t' clock. It was that very morn +as Kinraid were here.' + +'A'll go an' have a pint o' beer at t' King's Arms, down on t' +quay-side; it were theere he put up at. An' a'm pretty sure as he +only stopped one night, and left i' t' morning betimes. But a'll go +see.' + +'Do,' said Sylvia, 'and go out through t' shop; they're all watching +and watching me to see how I take things; and daren't let on about +t' fire as is burning up my heart. Coulson is i' t' shop, but he'll +not notice thee like Phoebe.' + +By-and-by Kester came back. It seemed as though Sylvia had never +stirred; she looked eagerly at him, but did not speak. + +'He went away i' Rob Mason's mail-cart, him as tak's t' letters to +Hartlepool. T' lieutenant (as they ca' him down at t' King's Arms; +they're as proud on his uniform as if it had been a new-painted sign +to swing o'er their doors), t' lieutenant had reckoned upo' stayin' +longer wi' 'em; but he went out betimes o' Tuesday morn', an' came +back a' ruffled up, an paid his bill--paid for his breakfast, though +he touched noane on it--an' went off i' Rob postman's mail-cart, as +starts reg'lar at ten o'clock. Corneys has been theere askin' for +him, an' makin' a piece o' work, as he niver went near em; and they +bees cousins. Niver a one among 'em knows as he were here as far as +a could mak' out.' + +'Thank yo', Kester,' said Sylvia, falling back in her chair, as if +all the energy that had kept her stiff and upright was gone now that +her anxiety was relieved. + +She was silent for a long time; her eyes shut, her cheek laid on her +child's head. Kester spoke next. + +'A think it's pretty clear as they'n niver met. But it's a' t' more +wonder where thy husband's gone to. Thee and him had words about it, +and thou telled him thy mind, thou said?' + +'Yes,' said Sylvia, not moving. 'I'm afeared lest mother knows what +I said to him, there, where she's gone to--I am-' the tears filled +her shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks; 'and yet +it were true, what I said, I cannot forgive him; he's just spoilt my +life, and I'm not one-and-twenty yet, and he knowed how wretched, +how very wretched, I were. A word fra' him would ha' mended it a'; +and Charley had bid him speak the word, and give me his faithful +love, and Philip saw my heart ache day after day, and niver let on +as him I was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he'd +keep true to me, as I were to do to him.' + +'A wish a'd been theere; a'd ha' felled him to t' ground,' said +Kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation. + +Sylvia was silent again: pale and weary she sate, her eyes still +shut. + +Then she said, + +'Yet he were so good to mother; and mother loved him so. Oh, +Kester!' lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, 'it's +well for folks as can die; they're spared a deal o' misery.' + +'Ay!' said he. 'But there's folk as one 'ud like to keep fra' +shirkin' their misery. Think yo' now as Philip is livin'?' + +Sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied. + +'I dunnot know. I said such things; he deserved 'em all----' + +'Well, well, lass!' said Kester, sorry that he had asked the +question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another. +'Neither thee nor me can tell; we can neither help nor hinder, +seein' as he's ta'en hissel' off out on our sight, we'd best not +think on him. A'll try an' tell thee some news, if a can think on it +wi' my mind so full. Thou knows Haytersbank folk ha' flitted, and t' +oud place is empty?' + +'Yes!' said Sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with +feeling. + +'A only telled yo' t' account like for me bein' at a loose end i' +Monkshaven. My sister, her as lived at Dale End an' is a widow, has +comed int' town to live; an' a'm lodging wi' her, an' jobbin' about. +A'm gettin' pretty well to do, an' a'm noane far t' seek, an' a'm +going now: only first a just wanted for t' say as a'm thy oldest +friend, a reckon, and if a can do a turn for thee, or go an errand, +like as a've done to-day, or if it's any comfort to talk a bit to +one who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've only t' send for +me, an' a'd come if it were twenty mile. A'm lodgin' at Peggy +Dawson's, t' lath and plaster cottage at t' right hand o' t' bridge, +a' among t' new houses, as they're thinkin' o' buildin' near t' sea: +no one can miss it.' + +He stood up and shook hands with her. As he did so, he looked at her +sleeping baby. + +'She's liker yo' than him. A think a'll say, God bless her.' + +With the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, baby awoke. She +ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the +disturbance made her cry fretfully. + +'Hush thee, darling, hush thee!' murmured her mother; 'there's no +one left to love me but thee, and I cannot stand thy weeping, my +pretty one. Hush thee, my babe, hush thee!' + +She whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairs +to bed. + +About three weeks after the miserable date of Bell Robson's death +and Philip's disappearance, Hester Rose received a letter from him. +She knew the writing on the address well; and it made her tremble so +much that it was many minutes before she dared to open it, and make +herself acquainted with the facts it might disclose. + +But she need not have feared; there were no facts told, unless the +vague date of 'London' might be something to learn. Even that much +might have been found out by the post-mark, only she had been too +much taken by surprise to examine it. + +It ran as follows:-- + + +'DEAR HESTER,-- + +'Tell those whom it may concern, that I have left Monkshaven for +ever. No one need trouble themselves about me; I am provided for. +Please to make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the Messrs +Foster, and to my partner, William Coulson. Please to accept of my +love, and to join the same to your mother. Please to give my +particular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt Isabella +Robson. Her daughter Sylvia knows what I have always felt, and shall +always feel, for her better than I can ever put into language, so I +send her no message; God bless and keep my child. You must all look +on me as one dead; as I am to you, and maybe shall soon be in +reality. + +'Your affectionate and obedient friend to command, + +'PHILIP HEPBURN. + +'P.S.--Oh, Hester! for God's sake and mine, look +after ('my wife,' scratched out) Sylvia and my child. I think +Jeremiah Foster will help you to be a friend to them. This is the +last solemn request of P. H. She is but very young.' + + +Hester read this letter again and again, till her heart caught the +echo of its hopelessness, and sank within her. She put it in her +pocket, and reflected upon it all the day long as she served in the +shop. + +The customers found her as gentle, but far more inattentive than +usual. She thought that in the evening she would go across the +bridge, and consult with the two good old brothers Foster. But +something occurred to put off the fulfilment of this plan. + +That same morning Sylvia had preceded her, with no one to consult, +because consultation would have required previous confidence, and +confidence would have necessitated such a confession about Kinraid +as it was most difficult for Sylvia to make. The poor young wife yet +felt that some step must be taken by her; and what it was to be she +could not imagine. + +She had no home to go to; for as Philip was gone away, she remained +where she was only on sufferance; she did not know what means of +livelihood she had; she was willing to work, nay, would be thankful +to take up her old life of country labour; but with her baby, what +could she do? + +In this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's kindly speech and +offer of assistance, made, it is true, half in joke, at the end of +her wedding visit, came into her mind; and she resolved to go and +ask for some of the friendly counsel and assistance then offered. + +It would be the first time of her going out since her mother's +funeral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. More even than +on that account did she shrink from going into the streets again. +She could not get over the impression that Kinraid must be lingering +near; and she distrusted herself so much that it was a positive +terror to think of meeting him again. She felt as though, if she but +caught a sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard his +well-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart would +stop, and she should die from very fright of what would come next. +Or rather so she felt, and so she thought before she took her baby +in her arms, as Nancy gave it to her after putting on its +out-of-door attire. + +With it in her arms she was protected, and the whole current of her +thoughts was changed. The infant was wailing and suffering with its +teething, and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing and +consoling her moaning child, that the dangerous quay-side and the +bridge were passed almost before she was aware; nor did she notice +the eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met who +recognized her even through the heavy veil which formed part of the +draping mourning provided for her by Hester and Coulson, in the +first unconscious days after her mother's death. + +Though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon Philip's +disappearance--warned possibly by Kinraid's story against hasty +decisions and judgments in such times as those of war and general +disturbance--yet every one agreed that no more pitiful fate could +have befallen Philip's wife. + +Marked out by her striking beauty as an object of admiring interest +even in those days when she sate in girlhood's smiling peace by her +mother at the Market Cross--her father had lost his life in a +popular cause, and ignominious as the manner of his death might be, +he was looked upon as a martyr to his zeal in avenging the wrongs of +his townsmen; Sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quiet +daily life was well known to them; and now her husband had been +carried off from her side just on the very day when she needed his +comfort most. + +For the general opinion was that Philip had been 'carried off'--in +seaport towns such occurrences were not uncommon in those +days--either by land-crimps or water-crimps. + +So Sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one sorely +afflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering walk +to Jeremiah Foster's. + +She had calculated her time so as to fall in with him at his dinner +hour, even though it obliged her to go to his own house rather than +to the bank where he and his brother spent all the business hours of +the day. + +Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and the +weight of her baby, that all she could do when the door was opened +was to totter into the nearest seat, sit down, and begin to cry. + +In an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her heavy cloak, +offering to relieve her of her child, who clung to her all the more +firmly, and some one was pressing a glass of wine against her lips. + +'No, sir, I cannot take it! wine allays gives me th' headache; if I +might have just a drink o' water. Thank you, ma'am' (to the +respectable-looking old servant), 'I'm well enough now; and perhaps, +sir, I might speak a word with yo', for it's that I've come for.' + +'It's a pity, Sylvia Hepburn, as thee didst not come to me at the +bank, for it's been a long toil for thee all this way in the heat, +with thy child. But if there's aught I can do or say for thee, thou +hast but to name it, I am sure. Martha! wilt thou relieve her of her +child while she comes with me into the parlour?' + +But the wilful little Bella stoutly refused to go to any one, and +Sylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was. + +So the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her after-life +depended on this trivial fact. + +Once installed in the easy-chair, and face to face with Jeremiah, +Sylvia did not know how to begin. + +Jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover herself, by +pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle before +the child's eyes, almost within reach of the child's eager little +fingers. + +'She favours you a deal,' said he, at last. 'More than her father,' +he went on, purposely introducing Philip's name, so as to break the +ice; for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him about +something connected with her husband. + +Still Sylvia said nothing; she was choking down tears and shyness, +and unwillingness to take as confidant a man of whom she knew so +little, on such slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as the +little kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from that +house the last time that she entered it. + +'It's no use keeping yo', sir,' she broke out at last. 'It's about +Philip as I comed to speak. Do yo' know any thing whatsomever about +him? He niver had a chance o' saying anything, I know; but maybe +he's written?' + +'Not a line, my poor young woman!' said Jeremiah, hastily putting an +end to that vain idea. + +'Then he's either dead or gone away for iver,' she whispered. 'I mun +be both feyther and mother to my child.' + +'Oh! thee must not give it up,' replied he. 'Many a one is carried +off to the wars, or to the tenders o' men-o'-war; and then they turn +out to be unfit for service, and are sent home. Philip 'll come back +before the year's out; thee'll see that.' + +'No; he'll niver come back. And I'm not sure as I should iver wish +him t' come back, if I could but know what was gone wi' him. Yo' +see, sir, though I were sore set again' him, I shouldn't like harm +to happen him.' + +'There is something behind all this that I do not understand. Can +thee tell me what it is?' + +'I must, sir, if yo're to help me wi' your counsel; and I came up +here to ask for it.' + +Another long pause, during which Jeremiah made a feint of playing +with the child, who danced and shouted with tantalized impatience at +not being able to obtain possession of the seal, and at length +stretched out her soft round little arms to go to the owner of the +coveted possession. Surprise at this action roused Sylvia, and she +made some comment upon it. + +'I niver knew her t' go to any one afore. I hope she'll not be +troublesome to yo', sir?' + +The old man, who had often longed for a child of his own in days +gone by, was highly pleased by this mark of baby's confidence, and +almost forgot, in trying to strengthen her regard by all the winning +wiles in his power, how her poor mother was still lingering over +some painful story which she could not bring herself to tell. + +'I'm afeared of speaking wrong again' any one, sir. And mother were +so fond o' Philip; but he kept something from me as would ha' made +me a different woman, and some one else, happen, a different man. I +were troth-plighted wi' Kinraid the specksioneer, him as was cousin +to th' Corneys o' Moss Brow, and comed back lieutenant i' t' navy +last Tuesday three weeks, after ivery one had thought him dead and +gone these three years.' + +She paused. + +'Well?' said Jeremiah, with interest; although his attention +appeared to be divided between the mother's story and the eager +playfulness of the baby on his knee. + +'Philip knew he were alive; he'd seen him taken by t' press-gang, +and Charley had sent a message to me by Philip.' + +Her white face was reddening, her eyes flashing at this point of her +story. + +'And he niver told me a word on it, not when he saw me like to break +my heart in thinking as Kinraid were dead; he kept it a' to hissel'; +and watched me cry, and niver said a word to comfort me wi' t' +truth. It would ha' been a great comfort, sir, only t' have had his +message if I'd niver ha' been to see him again. But Philip niver let +on to any one, as I iver heared on, that he'd seen Charley that +morning as t' press-gang took him. Yo' know about feyther's death, +and how friendless mother and me was left? and so I married him; for +he were a good friend to us then, and I were dazed like wi' sorrow, +and could see naught else to do for mother. He were allays very +tender and good to her, for sure.' + +Again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one or two deep +sighs. + +'If I go on, sir, now, I mun ask yo' to promise as yo'll niver tell. +I do so need some one to tell me what I ought to do, and I were led +here, like, else I would ha' died wi' it all within my teeth. Yo'll +promise, sir?' + +Jeremiah Foster looked in her face, and seeing the wistful, eager +look, he was touched almost against his judgment into giving the +promise required; she went on. + +'Upon a Tuesday morning, three weeks ago, I think, tho' for t' +matter o' time it might ha' been three years, Kinraid come home; +come back for t' claim me as his wife, and I were wed to Philip! I +met him i' t' road at first; and I couldn't tell him theere. He +followed me into t' house--Philip's house, sir, behind t' shop--and +somehow I told him all, how I were a wedded wife to another. Then he +up and said I'd a false heart--me false, sir, as had eaten my daily +bread in bitterness, and had wept t' nights through, all for sorrow +and mourning for his death! Then he said as Philip knowed all t' +time he were alive and coming back for me; and I couldn't believe +it, and I called Philip, and he come, and a' that Charley had said +were true; and yet I were Philip's wife! So I took a mighty oath, +and I said as I'd niver hold Philip to be my lawful husband again, +nor iver forgive him for t' evil he'd wrought us, but hold him as a +stranger and one as had done me a heavy wrong.' + +She stopped speaking; her story seemed to her to end there. But her +listener said, after a pause, + +'It were a cruel wrong, I grant thee that; but thy oath were a sin, +and thy words were evil, my poor lass. What happened next?' + +'I don't justly remember,' she said, wearily. 'Kinraid went away, +and mother cried out; and I went to her. She were asleep, I thought, +so I lay down by her, to wish I were dead, and to think on what +would come on my child if I died; and Philip came in softly, and I +made as if I were asleep; and that's t' very last as I've iver seen +or heared of him.' + +Jeremiah Foster groaned as she ended her story. Then he pulled +himself up, and said, in a cheerful tone of voice, + +'He'll come back, Sylvia Hepburn. He'll think better of it: never +fear!' + +'I fear his coming back!' said she. 'That's what I'm feared on; I +would wish as I knew on his well-doing i' some other place; but him +and me can niver live together again.' + +'Nay,' pleaded Jeremiah. 'Thee art sorry what thee said; thee were +sore put about, or thee wouldn't have said it.' + +He was trying to be a peace-maker, and to heal over conjugal +differences; but he did not go deep enough. + +'I'm not sorry,' said she, slowly. 'I were too deeply wronged to be +"put about"; that would go off wi' a night's sleep. It's only the +thought of mother (she's dead and happy, and knows nought of all +this, I trust) that comes between me and hating Philip. I'm not +sorry for what I said.' + +Jeremiah had never met with any one so frank and undisguised in +expressions of wrong feeling, and he scarcely knew what to say. + +He looked extremely grieved, and not a little shocked. So pretty and +delicate a young creature to use such strong relentless language! + +She seemed to read his thoughts, for she made answer to them. + +'I dare say you think I'm very wicked, sir, not to be sorry. Perhaps +I am. I can't think o' that for remembering how I've suffered; and +he knew how miserable I was, and might ha' cleared my misery away +wi' a word; and he held his peace, and now it's too late! I'm sick +o' men and their cruel, deceitful ways. I wish I were dead.' + +She was crying before she had ended this speech, and seeing her +tears, the child began to cry too, stretching out its little arms to +go back to its mother. The hard stony look on her face melted away +into the softest, tenderest love as she clasped the little one to +her, and tried to soothe its frightened sobs. + +A bright thought came into the old man's mind. + +He had been taking a complete dislike to her till her pretty way +with her baby showed him that she had a heart of flesh within her. + +'Poor little one!' said he, 'thy mother had need love thee, for +she's deprived thee of thy father's love. Thou'rt half-way to being +an orphan; yet I cannot call thee one of the fatherless to whom God +will be a father. Thou'rt a desolate babe, thou may'st well cry; +thine earthly parents have forsaken thee, and I know not if the Lord +will take thee up.' + +Sylvia looked up at him affrighted; holding her baby tighter to her, +she exclaimed. + +'Don't speak so, sir! it's cursing, sir! I haven't forsaken her! Oh, +sir! those are awful sayings.' + +'Thee hast sworn never to forgive thy husband, nor to live with him +again. Dost thee know that by the law of the land, he may claim his +child; and then thou wilt have to forsake it, or to be forsworn? +Poor little maiden!' continued he, once more luring the baby to him +with the temptation of the watch and chain. + +Sylvia thought for a while before speaking. Then she said, + +'I cannot tell what ways to take. Whiles I think my head is crazed. +It were a cruel turn he did me!' + +'It was. I couldn't have thought him guilty of such baseness.' + +This acquiescence, which was perfectly honest on Jeremiah's part, +almost took Sylvia by surprise. Why might she not hate one who had +been both cruel and base in his treatment of her? And yet she +recoiled from the application of such hard terms by another to +Philip, by a cool-judging and indifferent person, as she esteemed +Jeremiah to be. From some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, she +began to defend him, or at least to palliate the harsh judgment +which she herself had been the first to pronounce. + +'He were so tender to mother; she were dearly fond on him; he niver +spared aught he could do for her, else I would niver ha' married +him.' + +'He was a good and kind-hearted lad from the time he was fifteen. +And I never found him out in any falsehood, no more did my brother.' + +'But it were all the same as a lie,' said Sylvia, swiftly changing +her ground, 'to leave me to think as Charley were dead, when he +knowed all t' time he were alive.' + +'It was. It was a self-seeking lie; putting thee to pain to get his +own ends. And the end of it has been that he is driven forth like +Cain.' + +'I niver told him to go, sir.' + +'But thy words sent him forth, Sylvia.' + +'I cannot unsay them, sir; and I believe as I should say them +again.' + +But she said this as one who rather hopes for a contradiction. + +All Jeremiah replied, however, was, 'Poor wee child!' in a pitiful +tone, addressed to the baby. + +Sylvia's eyes filled with tears. + +'Oh, sir, I'll do anything as iver yo' can tell me for her. That's +what I came for t' ask yo'. I know I mun not stay theere, and Philip +gone away; and I dunnot know what to do: and I'll do aught, only I +must keep her wi' me. Whativer can I do, sir?' + +Jeremiah thought it over for a minute or two. Then he replied, + +'I must have time to think. I must talk it over with brother John.' + +'But you've given me yo'r word, sir!' exclaimed she. + +'I have given thee my word never to tell any one of what has passed +between thee and thy husband, but I must take counsel with my +brother as to what is to be done with thee and thy child, now that +thy husband has left the shop.' + +This was said so gravely as almost to be a reproach, and he got up, +as a sign that the interview was ended. + +He gave the baby back to its mother; but not without a solemn +blessing, so solemn that, to Sylvia's superstitious and excited +mind, it undid the terrors of what she had esteemed to be a curse. + +'The Lord bless thee and keep thee! The Lord make His face to shine +upon thee!' + +All the way down the hill-side, Sylvia kept kissing the child, and +whispering to its unconscious ears,-- + +'I'll love thee for both, my treasure, I will. I'll hap thee round +wi' my love, so as thou shall niver need a feyther's.' + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +BEREAVEMENT + + +Hester had been prevented by her mother's indisposition from taking +Philip's letter to the Fosters, to hold a consultation with them +over its contents. + +Alice Rose was slowly failing, and the long days which she had to +spend alone told much upon her spirits, and consequently upon her +health. + +All this came out in the conversation which ensued after reading +Hepburn's letter in the little parlour at the bank on the day after +Sylvia had had her confidential interview with Jeremiah Foster. + +He was a true man of honour, and never so much as alluded to her +visit to him; but what she had then told him influenced him very +much in the formation of the project which he proposed to his +brother and Hester. + +He recommended her remaining where she was, living still in the +house behind the shop; for he thought within himself that she might +have exaggerated the effect of her words upon Philip; that, after +all, it might have been some cause totally disconnected with them, +which had blotted out her husband's place among the men of +Monkshaven; and that it would be so much easier for both to resume +their natural relations, both towards each other and towards the +world, if Sylvia remained where her husband had left her--in an +expectant attitude, so to speak. + +Jeremiah Foster questioned Hester straitly about her letter: whether +she had made known its contents to any one. No, not to any one. +Neither to her mother nor to William Coulson? No, to neither. + +She looked at him as she replied to his inquiries, and he looked at +her, each wondering if the other could be in the least aware that a +conjugal quarrel might be at the root of the dilemma in which they +were placed by Hepburn's disappearance. + +But neither Hester, who had witnessed the misunderstanding between +the husband and wife on the evening, before the morning on which +Philip went away, nor Jeremiah Foster, who had learnt from Sylvia +the true reason of her husband's disappearance, gave the slightest +reason to the other to think that they each supposed they had a clue +to the reason of Hepburn's sudden departure. + +What Jeremiah Foster, after a night's consideration, had to propose +was this; that Hester and her mother should come and occupy the +house in the market-place, conjointly with Sylvia and her child. +Hester's interest in the shop was by this time acknowledged. +Jeremiah had made over to her so much of his share in the business, +that she had a right to be considered as a kind of partner; and she +had long been the superintendent of that department of goods which +were exclusively devoted to women. So her daily presence was +requisite for more reasons than one. + +Yet her mother's health and spirits were such as to render it +unadvisable that the old woman should be too much left alone; and +Sylvia's devotion to her own mother seemed to point her out as the +very person who could be a gentle and tender companion to Alice Rose +during those hours when her own daughter would necessarily be +engaged in the shop. + +Many desirable objects seemed to be gained by this removal of Alice: +an occupation was provided for Sylvia, which would detain her in the +place where her husband had left her, and where (Jeremiah Foster +fairly expected in spite of his letter) he was likely to come back +to find her; and Alice Rose, the early love of one of the brothers, +the old friend of the other, would be well cared for, and under her +daughter's immediate supervision during the whole of the time that +she was occupied in the shop. + +Philip's share of the business, augmented by the money which he had +put in from the legacy of his old Cumberland uncle, would bring in +profits enough to support Sylvia and her child in ease and comfort +until that time, which they all anticipated, when he should return +from his mysterious wandering--mysterious, whether his going forth +had been voluntary or involuntary. + +Thus far was settled; and Jeremiah Foster went to tell Sylvia of the +plan. + +She was too much a child, too entirely unaccustomed to any +independence of action, to do anything but leave herself in his +hands. Her very confession, made to him the day before, when she +sought his counsel, seemed to place her at his disposal. Otherwise, +she had had notions of the possibility of a free country life once +more--how provided for and arranged she hardly knew; but Haytersbank +was to let, and Kester disengaged, and it had just seemed possible +that she might have to return to her early home, and to her old +life. She knew that it would take much money to stock the farm +again, and that her hands were tied from much useful activity by the +love and care she owed to her baby. But still, somehow, she hoped +and she fancied, till Jeremiah Foster's measured words and +carefully-arranged plan made her silently relinquish her green, +breezy vision. + +Hester, too, had her own private rebellion--hushed into submission +by her gentle piety. If Sylvia had been able to make Philip happy, +Hester could have felt lovingly and almost gratefully towards her; +but Sylvia had failed in this. + +Philip had been made unhappy, and was driven forth a wanderer into +the wide world--never to come back! And his last words to Hester, +the postscript of his letter, containing the very pith of it, was to +ask her to take charge and care of the wife whose want of love +towards him had uprooted him from the place where he was valued and +honoured. + +It cost Hester many a struggle and many a self-reproach before she +could make herself feel what she saw all along--that in everything +Philip treated her like a sister. But even a sister might well be +indignant if she saw her brother's love disregarded and slighted, +and his life embittered by the thoughtless conduct of a wife! Still +Hester fought against herself, and for Philip's sake she sought to +see the good in Sylvia, and she strove to love her as well as to +take care of her. + +With the baby, of course, the case was different. Without thought or +struggle, or reason, every one loved the little girl. Coulson and +his buxom wife, who were childless, were never weary of making much +of her. Hester's happiest hours were spent with that little child. +Jeremiah Foster almost looked upon her as his own from the day when +she honoured him by yielding to the temptation of the chain and +seal, and coming to his knee; not a customer to the shop but knew +the smiling child's sad history, and many a country-woman would save +a rosy-cheeked apple from out her store that autumn to bring it on +next market-day for 'Philip Hepburn's baby, as had lost its father, +bless it.' + +Even stern Alice Rose was graciously inclined towards the little +Bella; and though her idea of the number of the elect was growing +narrower and narrower every day, she would have been loth to exclude +the innocent little child, that stroked her wrinkled cheeks so +softly every night in return for her blessing, from the few that +should be saved. Nay, for the child's sake, she relented towards the +mother; and strove to have Sylvia rescued from the many castaways +with fervent prayer, or, as she phrased it, 'wrestling with the +Lord'. + +Alice had a sort of instinct that the little child, so tenderly +loved by, so fondly loving, the mother whose ewe-lamb she was, could +not be even in heaven without yearning for the creature she had +loved best on earth; and the old woman believed that this was the +principal reason for her prayers for Sylvia; but unconsciously to +herself, Alice Rose was touched by the filial attentions she +constantly received from the young mother, whom she believed to be +foredoomed to condemnation. + +Sylvia rarely went to church or chapel, nor did she read her Bible; +for though she spoke little of her ignorance, and would fain, for +her child's sake, have remedied it now it was too late, she had lost +what little fluency of reading she had ever had, and could only make +out her words with much spelling and difficulty. So the taking her +Bible in hand would have been a mere form; though of this Alice Rose +knew nothing. + +No one knew much of what was passing in Sylvia; she did not know +herself. Sometimes in the nights she would waken, crying, with a +terrible sense of desolation; every one who loved her, or whom she +had loved, had vanished out of her life; every one but her child, +who lay in her arms, warm and soft. + +But then Jeremiah Foster's words came upon her; words that she had +taken for cursing at the time; and she would so gladly have had some +clue by which to penetrate the darkness of the unknown region from +whence both blessing and cursing came, and to know if she had indeed +done something which should cause her sin to be visited on that +soft, sweet, innocent darling. + +If any one would teach her to read! If any one would explain to her +the hard words she heard in church or chapel, so that she might find +out the meaning of sin and godliness!--words that had only passed +over the surface of her mind till now! For her child's sake she +should like to do the will of God, if she only knew what that was, +and how to be worked out in her daily life. + +But there was no one she dared confess her ignorance to and ask +information from. Jeremiah Foster had spoken as if her child, sweet +little merry Bella, with a loving word and a kiss for every one, was +to suffer heavily for the just and true words her wronged and +indignant mother had spoken. Alice always spoke as if there were no +hope for her; and blamed her, nevertheless, for not using the means +of grace that it was not in her power to avail herself of. + +And Hester, that Sylvia would fain have loved for her uniform +gentleness and patience with all around her, seemed so cold in her +unruffled and undemonstrative behaviour; and moreover, Sylvia felt +that Hester blamed her perpetual silence regarding Philip's absence +without knowing how bitter a cause Sylvia had for casting him off. + +The only person who seemed to have pity upon her was Kester; and his +pity was shown in looks rather than words; for when he came to see +her, which he did from time to time, by a kind of mutual tacit +consent, they spoke but little of former days. + +He was still lodging with his sister, widow Dobson, working at odd +jobs, some of which took him into the country for weeks at a time. +But on his returns to Monkshaven he was sure to come and see her and +the little Bella; indeed, when his employment was in the immediate +neighbourhood of the town, he never allowed a week to pass away +without a visit. + +There was not much conversation between him and Sylvia at such +times. They skimmed over the surface of the small events in which +both took an interest; only now and then a sudden glance, a checked +speech, told each that there were deeps not forgotten, although they +were never mentioned. + +Twice Sylvia--below her breath--had asked Kester, just as she was +holding the door open for his departure, if anything had ever been +heard of Kinraid since his one night's visit to Monkshaven: each +time (and there was an interval of some months between the +inquiries) the answer had been simply, no. + +To no one else would Sylvia ever have named his name. But indeed she +had not the chance, had she wished it ever so much, of asking any +questions about him from any one likely to know. The Corneys had +left Moss Brow at Martinmas, and gone many miles away towards +Horncastle. Bessy Corney, it is true was married and left behind in +the neighbourhood; but with her Sylvia had never been intimate; and +what girlish friendship there might have been between them had +cooled very much at the time of Kinraid's supposed death three years +before. + +One day before Christmas in this year, 1798, Sylvia was called into +the shop by Coulson, who, with his assistant, was busy undoing the +bales of winter goods supplied to them from the West Riding, and +other places. He was looking at a fine Irish poplin dress-piece when +Sylvia answered to his call. + +'Here! do you know this again?' asked he, in the cheerful tone of +one sure of giving pleasure. + +'No! have I iver seen it afore?' + +'Not this, but one for all t' world like it.' + +She did not rouse up to much interest, but looked at it as if trying +to recollect where she could have seen its like. + +'My missus had one on at th' party at John Foster's last March, and +yo' admired it a deal. And Philip, he thought o' nothing but how he +could get yo' just such another, and he set a vast o' folk agait for +to meet wi' its marrow; and what he did just the very day afore he +went away so mysterious was to write through Dawson Brothers, o' +Wakefield, to Dublin, and order that one should be woven for yo'. +Jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give him t' exact colour.' + +Sylvia did not say anything but that it was very pretty, in a low +voice, and then she quickly left the shop, much to Coulson's +displeasure. + +All the afternoon she was unusually quiet and depressed. + +Alice Rose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched her with keen +eyes. + +At length, after one of Sylvia's deep, unconscious sighs, the old +woman spoke: + +'It's religion as must comfort thee, child, as it's done many a one +afore thee.' + +'How?' said Sylvia, looking up, startled to find herself an object +of notice. + +'How?' (The answer was not quite so ready as the precept had been.) +'Read thy Bible, and thou wilt learn.' + +'But I cannot read,' said Sylvia, too desperate any longer to +conceal her ignorance. + +'Not read! and thee Philip's wife as was such a great scholar! Of a +surety the ways o' this life are crooked! There was our Hester, as +can read as well as any minister, and Philip passes over her to go +and choose a young lass as cannot read her Bible.' + +'Was Philip and Hester----' + +Sylvia paused, for though a new curiosity had dawned upon her, she +did not know how to word her question. + +'Many a time and oft have I seen Hester take comfort in her Bible +when Philip was following after thee. She knew where to go for +consolation.' + +'I'd fain read,' said Sylvia, humbly, 'if anybody would learn me; +for perhaps it might do me good; I'm noane so happy.' + +Her eyes, as she looked up at Alice's stern countenance, were full +of tears. + +The old woman saw it, and was touched, although she did not +immediately show her sympathy. But she took her own time, and made +no reply. + +The next day, however, she bade Sylvia come to her, and then and +there, as if her pupil had been a little child, she began to teach +Sylvia to read the first chapter of Genesis; for all other reading +but the Scriptures was as vanity to her, and she would not +condescend to the weakness of other books. Sylvia was now, as ever, +slow at book-learning; but she was meek and desirous to be taught, +and her willingness in this respect pleased Alice, and drew her +singularly towards one who, from being a pupil, might become a +convert. + +All this time Sylvia never lost the curiosity that had been excited +by the few words Alice had let drop about Hester and Philip, and by +degrees she approached the subject again, and had the idea then +started confirmed by Alice, who had no scruple in using the past +experience of her own, of her daughter's, or of any one's life, as +an instrument to prove the vanity of setting the heart on anything +earthly. + +This knowledge, unsuspected before, sank deep into Sylvia's +thoughts, and gave her a strange interest in Hester--poor Hester, +whose life she had so crossed and blighted, even by the very +blighting of her own. She gave Hester her own former passionate +feelings for Kinraid, and wondered how she herself should have felt +towards any one who had come between her and him, and wiled his love +away. When she remembered Hester's unfailing sweetness and kindness +towards herself from the very first, she could better bear the +comparative coldness of her present behaviour. + +She tried, indeed, hard to win back the favour she had lost; but the +very means she took were blunders, and only made it seem to her as +if she could never again do right in Hester's eyes. + +For instance, she begged her to accept and wear the pretty poplin +gown which had been Philip's especial choice; feeling within herself +as if she should never wish to put it on, and as if the best thing +she could do with it was to offer it to Hester. But Hester rejected +the proffered gift with as much hardness of manner as she was +capable of assuming; and Sylvia had to carry it upstairs and lay it +by for the little daughter, who, Hester said, might perhaps learn to +value things that her father had given especial thought to. + +Yet Sylvia went on trying to win Hester to like her once more; it +was one of her great labours, and learning to read from Hester's +mother was another. + +Alice, indeed, in her solemn way, was becoming quite fond of Sylvia; +if she could not read or write, she had a deftness and gentleness of +motion, a capacity for the household matters which fell into her +department, that had a great effect on the old woman, and for her +dear mother's sake Sylvia had a stock of patient love ready in her +heart for all the aged and infirm that fell in her way. She never +thought of seeking them out, as she knew that Hester did; but then +she looked up to Hester as some one very remarkable for her +goodness. If only she could have liked her! + +Hester tried to do all she could for Sylvia; Philip had told her to +take care of his wife and child; but she had the conviction that +Sylvia had so materially failed in her duties as to have made her +husband an exile from his home--a penniless wanderer, wifeless and +childless, in some strange country, whose very aspect was +friendless, while the cause of all lived on in the comfortable home +where he had placed her, wanting for nothing--an object of interest +and regard to many friends--with a lovely little child to give her +joy for the present, and hope for the future; while he, the poor +outcast, might even lie dead by the wayside. How could Hester love +Sylvia? + +Yet they were frequent companions that ensuing spring. Hester was +not well; and the doctors said that the constant occupation in the +shop was too much for her, and that she must, for a time at least, +take daily walks into the country. + +Sylvia used to beg to accompany her; she and the little girl often +went with Hester up the valley of the river to some of the nestling +farms that were hidden in the more sheltered nooks--for Hester was +bidden to drink milk warm from the cow; and to go into the familiar +haunts about a farm was one of the few things in which Sylvia seemed +to take much pleasure. She would let little Bella toddle about while +Hester sate and rested: and she herself would beg to milk the cow +destined to give the invalid her draught. + +One May evening the three had been out on some such expedition; the +country side still looked gray and bare, though the leaves were +showing on the willow and blackthorn and sloe, and by the tinkling +runnels, making hidden music along the copse side, the pale delicate +primrose buds were showing amid their fresh, green, crinkled leaves. +The larks had been singing all the afternoon, but were now dropping +down into their nests in the pasture fields; the air had just the +sharpness in it which goes along with a cloudless evening sky at +that time of the year. + +But Hester walked homewards slowly and languidly, speaking no word. +Sylvia noticed this at first without venturing to speak, for Hester +was one who disliked having her ailments noticed. But after a while +Hester stood still in a sort of weary dreamy abstraction; and Sylvia +said to her, + +'I'm afeared yo're sadly tired. Maybe we've been too far.' + +Hester almost started. + +'No!' said she, 'it's only my headache which is worse to-night. It +has been bad all day; but since I came out it has felt just as if +there were great guns booming, till I could almost pray 'em to be +quiet. I am so weary o' th' sound.' + +She stepped out quickly towards home after she had said this, as if +she wished for neither pity nor comment on what she had said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +THE RECOGNITION + + +Far away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, great guns were +booming on that 7th of May, 1799. + +The Mediterranean came up with a long roar on a beach glittering +white with snowy sand, and the fragments of innumerable sea-shells, +delicate and shining as porcelain. Looking at that shore from the +sea, a long ridge of upland ground, beginning from an inland depth, +stretched far away into the ocean on the right, till it ended in a +great mountainous bluff, crowned with the white buildings of a +convent sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its base. + +In the clear eastern air, the different characters of the foliage +that clothed the sides of that sea-washed mountain might be +discerned from a long distance by the naked eye; the silver gray of +the olive-trees near its summit; the heavy green and bossy forms of +the sycamores lower down; broken here and there by a solitary +terebinth or ilex tree, of a deeper green and a wider spread; till +the eye fell below on the maritime plain, edged with the white +seaboard and the sandy hillocks; with here and there feathery +palm-trees, either isolated or in groups--motionless and distinct +against the hot purple air. + +Look again; a little to the left on the sea-shore there are the +white walls of a fortified town, glittering in sunlight, or black in +shadow. + +The fortifications themselves run out into the sea, forming a port +and a haven against the wild Levantine storms; and a lighthouse +rises out of the waves to guide mariners into safety. + +Beyond this walled city, and far away to the left still, there is +the same wide plain shut in by the distant rising ground, till the +upland circuit comes closing in to the north, and the great white +rocks meet the deep tideless ocean with its intensity of blue +colour. + +Above, the sky is literally purple with heat; and the pitiless light +smites the gazer's weary eye as it comes back from the white shore. +Nor does the plain country in that land offer the refuge and rest of +our own soft green. The limestone rock underlies the vegetation, and +gives a glittering, ashen hue to all the bare patches, and even to +the cultivated parts which are burnt up early in the year. In +spring-time alone does the country look rich and fruitful; then the +corn-fields of the plain show their capability of bearing, 'some +fifty, some an hundred fold'; down by the brook Kishon, flowing not +far from the base of the mountainous promontory to the south, there +grow the broad green fig-trees, cool and fresh to look upon; the +orchards are full of glossy-leaved cherry-trees; the tall amaryllis +puts forth crimson and yellow glories in the fields, rivalling the +pomp of King Solomon; the daisies and the hyacinths spread their +myriad flowers; the anemones, scarlet as blood, run hither and +thither over the ground like dazzling flames of fire. + +A spicy odour lingers in the heated air; it comes from the multitude +of aromatic flowers that blossom in the early spring. Later on they +will have withered and faded, and the corn will have been gathered, +and the deep green of the eastern foliage will have assumed a kind +of gray-bleached tint. + +Even now in May, the hot sparkle of the everlasting sea, the +terribly clear outline of all objects, whether near or distant, the +fierce sun right overhead, the dazzling air around, were +inexpressibly wearying to the English eyes that kept their skilled +watch, day and night, on the strongly-fortified coast-town that lay +out a little to the northward of where the British ships were +anchored. + +They had kept up a flanking fire for many days in aid of those +besieged in St Jean d'Acre; and at intervals had listened, +impatient, to the sound of the heavy siege guns, or the sharper +rattle of the French musketry. + +In the morning, on the 7th of May, a man at the masthead of the +_Tigre_ sang out that he saw ships in the offing; and in reply to +the signal that was hastily run up, he saw the distant vessels hoist +friendly flags. That May morning was a busy time. The besieged Turks +took heart of grace; the French outside, under the command of their +great general, made hasty preparations for a more vigorous assault +than all many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone before (for +the siege was now at its fifty-first day), in hopes of carrying the +town by storm before the reinforcement coming by sea could arrive; +and Sir Sidney Smith, aware of Buonaparte's desperate intention, +ordered all the men, both sailors and marines, that could be spared +from the necessity of keeping up a continual flanking fire from the +ships upon the French, to land, and assist the Turks and the British +forces already there in the defence of the old historic city. + +Lieutenant Kinraid, who had shared his captain's daring adventure +off the coast of France three years before, who had been a prisoner +with him and Westley Wright, in the Temple at Paris, and had escaped +with them, and, through Sir Sidney's earnest recommendation, been +promoted from being a warrant officer to the rank of lieutenant, +received on this day the honour from his admiral of being appointed +to an especial post of danger. His heart was like a war-horse, and +said, Ha, ha! as the boat bounded over the waves that were to land +him under the ancient machicolated walls where the Crusaders made +their last stand in the Holy Land. Not that Kinraid knew or cared +one jot about those gallant knights of old: all he knew was, that +the French, under Boney, were trying to take the town from the +Turks, and that his admiral said they must not, and so they should +not. + +He and his men landed on that sandy shore, and entered the town by +the water-port gate; he was singing to himself his own country +song,-- + + Weel may the keel row, the keel row, &C. + +and his men, with sailors' aptitude for music, caught up the air, +and joined in the burden with inarticulate sounds. + +So, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow streets of Acre, +hemmed in on either side by the white walls of Turkish houses, with +small grated openings high up, above all chance of peeping +intrusion. + +Here and there they met an ample-robed and turbaned Turk going along +with as much haste as his stately self-possession would allow. But +the majority of the male inhabitants were gathered together to +defend the breach, where the French guns thundered out far above the +heads of the sailors. + +They went along none the less merrily for the sound to Djezzar +Pacha's garden, where the old Turk sate on his carpet, beneath the +shade of a great terebinth tree, listening to the interpreter, who +made known to him the meaning of the eager speeches of Sir Sidney +Smith and the colonel of the marines. + +As soon as the admiral saw the gallant sailors of H.M.S. _Tigre_, he +interrupted the council of war without much ceremony, and going to +Kinraid, he despatched them, as before arranged, to the North +Ravelin, showing them the way with rapid, clear directions. + +Out of respect to him, they had kept silent while in the strange, +desolate garden; but once more in the streets, the old Newcastle +song rose up again till the men were, perforce, silenced by the +haste with which they went to the post of danger. + +It was three o'clock in the afternoon. For many a day these very men +had been swearing at the terrific heat at this hour--even when at +sea, fanned by the soft breeze; but now, in the midst of hot smoke, +with former carnage tainting the air, and with the rush and whizz of +death perpetually whistling in their ears, they were uncomplaining +and light-hearted. Many an old joke, and some new ones, came brave +and hearty, on their cheerful voices, even though the speaker was +veiled from sight in great clouds of smoke, cloven only by the +bright flames of death. + +A sudden message came; as many of the crew of the _Tigre_ as were +under Lieutenant Kinraid's command were to go down to the Mole, to +assist the new reinforcements (seen by the sailor from the masthead +at day-dawn), under command of Hassan Bey, to land at the Mole, +where Sir Sidney then was. + +Off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as before, though +two of their number lay silent for ever at the North +Ravelin--silenced in that one little half-hour. And one went along +with the rest, swearing lustily at his ill-luck in having his right +arm broken, but ready to do good business with his left. + +They helped the Turkish troops to land more with good-will than +tenderness; and then, led by Sir Sidney, they went under the shelter +of English guns to the fatal breach, so often assailed, so gallantly +defended, but never so fiercely contested as on this burning +afternoon. The ruins of the massive wall that here had been broken +down by the French, were used by them as stepping stones to get on a +level with the besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones which the +latter hurled down; nay, even the dead bodies of the morning's +comrades were made into ghastly stairs. + +When Djezzar Pacha heard that the British sailors were defending the +breach, headed by Sir Sidney Smith, he left his station in the +palace garden, gathered up his robes in haste, and hurried to the +breach; where, with his own hands, and with right hearty good-will, +he pulled the sailors down from the post of danger, saying that if +he lost his English friends he lost all! + +But little recked the crew of the _Tigre_ of the one old man--Pacha +or otherwise--who tried to hold them back from the fight; they were +up and at the French assailants clambering over the breach in an +instant; and so they went on, as if it were some game at play +instead of a deadly combat, until Kinraid and his men were called +off by Sir Sidney, as the reinforcement of Turkish troops under +Hassan Bey were now sufficient for the defence of that old breach in +the walls, which was no longer the principal object of the French +attack; for the besiegers had made a new and more formidable breach +by their incessant fire, knocking down whole streets of the city +walls. + +'Fight your best Kinraid!' said Sir Sidney; 'for there's Boney on +yonder hill looking at you.' + +And sure enough, on a rising ground, called Richard Coeur de Lion's +Mount, there was a half-circle of French generals, on horseback, all +deferentially attending to the motions, and apparently to the words, +of a little man in their centre; at whose bidding the aide-de-camp +galloped swift with messages to the more distant French camp. + +The two ravelins which Kinraid and his men had to occupy, for the +purpose of sending a flanking fire upon the enemy, were not ten +yards from that enemy's van. + +But at length there was a sudden rush of the French to that part of +the wall where they imagined they could enter unopposed. + +Surprised at this movement, Kinraid ventured out of the shelter of +the ravelin to ascertain the cause; he, safe and untouched during +that long afternoon of carnage, fell now, under a stray musket-shot, +and lay helpless and exposed upon the ground undiscerned by his men, +who were recalled to help in the hot reception which had been +planned for the French; who, descending the city walls into the +Pacha's garden, were attacked with sabre and dagger, and lay +headless corpses under the flowering rose-bushes, and by the +fountain side. + +Kinraid lay beyond the ravelins, many yards outside the city walls. + +He was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken his leg. Dead +bodies of Frenchmen lay strewn around him; no Englishman had +ventured out so far. + +All the wounded men that he could see were French; and many of +these, furious with pain, gnashed their teeth at him, and cursed him +aloud, till he thought that his best course was to assume the +semblance of death; for some among these men were still capable of +dragging themselves up to him, and by concentrating all their +failing energies into one blow, put him to a speedy end. + +The outlying pickets of the French army were within easy rifle shot; +and his uniform, although less conspicuous in colour than that of +the marines, by whose sides he had been fighting, would make him a +sure mark if he so much as moved his arm. Yet how he longed to turn, +if ever so slightly, so that the cruel slanting sun might not beat +full into his aching eyes. Fever, too, was coming upon him; the pain +in his leg was every moment growing more severe; the terrible thirst +of the wounded, added to the heat and fatigue of the day, made his +lips and tongue feel baked and dry, and his whole throat seemed +parched and wooden. Thoughts of other days, of cool Greenland seas, +where ice abounded, of grassy English homes, began to make the past +more real than the present. + +With a great effort he brought his wandering senses back; he knew +where he was now, and could weigh the chances of his life, which +were but small; the unwonted tears came to his eyes as he thought of +the newly-made wife in her English home, who might never know how he +died thinking of her. + +Suddenly he saw a party of English marines advance, under shelter of +the ravelin, to pick up the wounded, and bear them within the walls +for surgical help. They were so near he could see their faces, could +hear them speak; yet he durst not make any sign to them when he lay +within range of the French picket's fire. + +For one moment he could not resist raising his head, to give himself +a chance for life; before the unclean creatures that infest a camp +came round in the darkness of the night to strip and insult the dead +bodies, and to put to death such as had yet the breath of life +within them. But the setting sun came full into his face, and he saw +nothing of what he longed to see. + +He fell back in despair; he lay there to die. + +That strong clear sunbeam had wrought his salvation. + +He had been recognized as men are recognized when they stand in the +red glare of a house on fire; the same despair of help, of hopeless +farewell to life, stamped on their faces in blood-red light. + +One man left his fellows, and came running forwards, forwards in +among the enemy's wounded, within range of their guns; he bent down +over Kinraid; he seemed to understand without a word; he lifted him +up, carrying him like a child; and with the vehement energy that is +more from the force of will than the strength of body, he bore him +back to within the shelter of the ravelin--not without many shots +being aimed at them, one of which hit Kinraid in the fleshy part of +his arm. + +Kinraid was racked with agony from his dangling broken leg, and his +very life seemed leaving him; yet he remembered afterwards how the +marine recalled his fellows, and how, in the pause before they +returned, his face became like one formerly known to the sick senses +of Kinraid; yet it was too like a dream, too utterly improbable to +be real. + +Yet the few words this man said, as he stood breathless and alone by +the fainting Kinraid, fitted in well with the belief conjured up by +his personal appearance. He panted out,-- + +'I niver thought you'd ha' kept true to her!' + +And then the others came up; and while they were making a sling of +their belts, Kinraid fainted utterly away, and the next time that he +was fully conscious, he was lying in his berth in the _Tigre_, with +the ship surgeon setting his leg. After that he was too feverish for +several days to collect his senses. When he could first remember, +and form a judgment upon his recollections, he called the man +especially charged to attend upon him, and bade him go and make +inquiry in every possible manner for a marine named Philip Hepburn, +and, when he was found, to entreat him to come and see Kinraid. + +The sailor was away the greater part of the day, and returned +unsuccessful in his search; he had been from ship to ship, hither +and thither; he had questioned all the marines he had met with, no +one knew anything of any Philip Hepburn. + +Kinraid passed a miserably feverish night, and when the doctor +exclaimed the next morning at his retrogression, he told him, with +some irritation, of the ill-success of his servant; he accused the +man of stupidity, and wished fervently that he were able to go +himself. + +Partly to soothe him, the doctor promised that he would undertake +the search for Hepburn, and he engaged faithfully to follow all +Kinraid's eager directions; not to be satisfied with men's careless +words, but to look over muster-rolls and ships' books. + +He, too, brought the same answer, however unwillingly given. + +He had set out upon the search so confident of success, that he felt +doubly discomfited by failure. However, he had persuaded himself +that the lieutenant had been partially delirious from the effects of +his wound, and the power of the sun shining down just where he lay. +There had, indeed, been slight symptoms of Kinraid's having received +a sun-stroke; and the doctor dwelt largely on these in his endeavour +to persuade his patient that it was his imagination which had endued +a stranger with the lineaments of some former friend. + +Kinraid threw his arms out of bed with impatience at all this +plausible talk, which was even more irritating than the fact that +Hepburn was still undiscovered. + +'The man was no friend of mine; I was like to have killed him when +last I saw him. He was a shopkeeper in a country town in England. I +had seen little enough of him; but enough to make me able to swear +to him anywhere, even in a marine's uniform, and in this sweltering +country.' + +'Faces once seen, especially in excitement, are apt to return upon +the memory in cases of fever,' quoth the doctor, sententiously. + +The attendant sailor, reinstalled to some complacency by the failure +of another in the search in which he himself had been unsuccessful, +now put in his explanation. + +'Maybe it was a spirit. It's not th' first time as I've heared of a +spirit coming upon earth to save a man's life i' time o' need. My +father had an uncle, a west-country grazier. He was a-coming over +Dartmoor in Devonshire one moonlight night with a power o' money as +he'd got for his sheep at t' fair. It were stowed i' leather bags +under th' seat o' th' gig. It were a rough kind o' road, both as a +road and in character, for there'd been many robberies there of +late, and th' great rocks stood convenient for hiding-places. All at +once father's uncle feels as if some one were sitting beside him on +th' empty seat; and he turns his head and looks, and there he sees +his brother sitting--his brother as had been dead twelve year and +more. So he turns his head back again, eyes right, and never say a +word, but wonders what it all means. All of a sudden two fellows +come out upo' th' white road from some black shadow, and they +looked, and they let th' gig go past, father's uncle driving hard, +I'll warrant him. But for all that he heard one say to t' other, +"By----, there's _two_ on 'em!" Straight on he drove faster than +ever, till he saw th' far lights of some town or other. I forget its +name, though I've heared it many a time; and then he drew a long +breath, and turned his head to look at his brother, and ask him how +he'd managed to come out of his grave i' Barum churchyard, and th' +seat was as empty as it had been when he set out; and then he knew +that it were a spirit come to help him against th' men who thought +to rob him, and would likely enough ha' murdered him.' + +Kinraid had kept quiet through this story. But when the sailor began +to draw the moral, and to say, 'And I think I may make bold to say, +sir, as th' marine who carried you out o' th' Frenchy's gun-shot was +just a spirit come to help you,' he exclaimed impatiently, swearing +a great oath as he did so, 'It was no spirit, I tell you; and I was +in my full senses. It was a man named Philip Hepburn. He said words +to me, or over me, as none but himself would have said. Yet we hated +each other like poison; and I can't make out why he should be there +and putting himself in danger to save me. But so it was; and as you +can't find him, let me hear no more of your nonsense. It was him, +and not my fancy, doctor. It was flesh and blood, and not a spirit, +Jack. So get along with you, and leave me quiet.' + +All this time Stephen Freeman lay friendless, sick, and shattered, +on board the _Thesus_. + +He had been about his duty close to some shells that were placed on +her deck; a gay young midshipman was thoughtlessly striving to get +the fusee out of one of these by a mallet and spike-nail that lay +close at hand; and a fearful explosion ensued, in which the poor +marine, cleaning his bayonet near, was shockingly burnt and +disfigured, the very skin of all the lower part of his face being +utterly destroyed by gunpowder. They said it was a mercy that his +eyes were spared; but he could hardly feel anything to be a mercy, +as he lay tossing in agony, burnt by the explosion, wounded by +splinters, and feeling that he was disabled for life, if life itself +were preserved. Of all that suffered by that fearful accident (and +they were many) none was so forsaken, so hopeless, so desolate, as +the Philip Hepburn about whom such anxious inquiries were being made +at that very time. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +CONFIDENCES + + +It was a little later on in that same summer that Mrs. Brunton came +to visit her sister Bessy. + +Bessy was married to a tolerably well-to-do farmer who lived at an +almost equal distance between Monkshaven and Hartswell; but from old +habit and convenience the latter was regarded as the Dawsons' +market-town; so Bessy seldom or never saw her old friends in +Monkshaven. + +But Mrs. Brunton was far too flourishing a person not to speak out +her wishes, and have her own way. She had no notion, she said, of +coming such a long journey only to see Bessy and her husband, and +not to have a sight of her former acquaintances at Monkshaven. She +might have added, that her new bonnet and cloak would be as good as +lost if it was not displayed among those who, knowing her as Molly +Corney, and being less fortunate in matrimony than she was, would +look upon it with wondering admiration, if not with envy. + +So one day farmer Dawson's market-cart deposited Mrs. Brunton in all +her bravery at the shop in the market-place, over which Hepburn and +Coulson's names still flourished in joint partnership. + +After a few words of brisk recognition to Coulson and Hester, Mrs +Brunton passed on into the parlour and greeted Sylvia with +boisterous heartiness. + +It was now four years and more since the friends had met; and each +secretly wondered how they had ever come to be friends. Sylvia had a +country, raw, spiritless look to Mrs. Brunton's eye; Molly was loud +and talkative, and altogether distasteful to Sylvia, trained in +daily companionship with Hester to appreciate soft slow speech, and +grave thoughtful ways. + +However, they kept up the forms of their old friendship, though +their hearts had drifted far apart. They sat hand in hand while each +looked at the other with eyes inquisitive as to the changes which +time had made. Molly was the first to speak. + +'Well, to be sure! how thin and pale yo've grown, Sylvia! Matrimony +hasn't agreed wi' yo' as well as it's done wi me. Brunton is allays +saying (yo' know what a man he is for his joke) that if he'd ha' +known how many yards o' silk I should ha' ta'en for a gown, he'd ha' +thought twice afore he'd ha' married me. Why, I've gained a matter +o' thirty pound o' flesh sin' I were married!' + +'Yo' do look brave and hearty!' said Sylvia, putting her sense of +her companion's capacious size and high colour into the prettiest +words she could. + +'Eh! Sylvia! but I know what it is,' said Molly, shaking her head. +'It's just because o' that husband o' thine as has gone and left +thee; thou's pining after him, and he's not worth it. Brunton said, +when he heared on it--I mind he was smoking at t' time, and he took +his pipe out of his mouth, and shook out t' ashes as grave as any +judge--"The man," says he, "as can desert a wife like Sylvia Robson +as was, deserves hanging!" That's what he says! Eh! Sylvia, but +speakin' o' hanging I was so grieved for yo' when I heared of yo'r +poor feyther! Such an end for a decent man to come to! Many a one +come an' called on me o' purpose to hear all I could tell 'em about +him!' + +'Please don't speak on it!' said Sylvia, trembling all over. + +'Well, poor creature, I wunnot. It is hard on thee, I grant. But to +give t' devil his due, it were good i' Hepburn to marry thee, and so +soon after there was a' that talk about thy feyther. Many a man +would ha' drawn back, choose howiver far they'd gone. I'm noane so +sure about Charley Kinraid. Eh, Sylvia! only think on his being +alive after all. I doubt if our Bessy would ha' wed Frank Dawson if +she'd known as he wasn't drowned. But it's as well she did, for +Dawson's a man o' property, and has getten twelve cows in his +cow-house, beside three right down good horses; and Kinraid were +allays a fellow wi' two strings to his bow. I've allays said and do +maintain, that he went on pretty strong wi' yo', Sylvie; and I will +say I think he cared more for yo' than for our Bessy, though it were +only yesterday at e'en she were standing out that he liked her +better than yo'. Yo'll ha' heared on his grand marriage?' + +'No!' said Sylvia, with eager painful curiosity. + +'No! It was in all t' papers! I wonder as yo' didn't see it. Wait a +minute! I cut it out o' t' _Gentleman's Magazine_, as Brunton bought +o' purpose, and put it i' my pocket-book when I were a-coming here: +I know I've got it somewheere.' + +She took out her smart crimson pocket-book, and rummaged in the +pocket until she produced a little crumpled bit of printed paper, +from which she read aloud, + +'On January the third, at St Mary Redcliffe, Bristol, Charles +Kinraid, Esq., lieutenant Royal Navy, to Miss Clarinda Jackson, with +a fortune of 10,000_l_.' + +'Theere!' said she, triumphantly, 'it's something as Brunton says, +to be cousin to that.' + +'Would yo' let me see it?' said Sylvia, timidly. + +Mrs. Brunton graciously consented; and Sylvia brought her newly +acquired reading-knowledge, hitherto principally exercised on the +Old Testament, to bear on these words. + +There was nothing wonderful in them, nothing that she might not have +expected; and yet the surprise turned her giddy for a moment or two. +She never thought of seeing him again, never. But to think of his +caring for another woman as much as he had done for her, nay, +perhaps more! + +The idea was irresistibly forced upon her that Philip would not have +acted so; it would have taken long years before he could have been +induced to put another on the throne she had once occupied. For the +first time in her life she seemed to recognize the real nature of +Philip's love. + +But she said nothing but 'Thank yo',' when she gave the scrap of +paper back to Molly Brunton. And the latter continued giving her +information about Kinraid's marriage. + +'He were down in t' west, Plymouth or somewheere, when he met wi' +her. She's no feyther; he'd been in t' sugar-baking business; but +from what Kinraid wrote to old Turner, th' uncle as brought him up +at Cullercoats, she's had t' best of edications: can play on t' +instrument and dance t' shawl dance; and Kinraid had all her money +settled on her, though she said she'd rayther give it all to him, +which I must say, being his cousin, was very pretty on her. He's +left her now, having to go off in t' _Tigre_, as is his ship, to t' +Mediterranean seas; and she's written to offer to come and see old +Turner, and make friends with his relations, and Brunton is going to +gi'e me a crimson satin as soon as we know for certain when she's +coming, for we're sure to be asked out to Cullercoats.' + +'I wonder if she's very pretty?' asked Sylvia, faintly, in the first +pause in this torrent of talk. + +'Oh! she's a perfect beauty, as I understand. There was a traveller +as come to our shop as had been at York, and knew some of her +cousins theere that were in t' grocery line--her mother was a York +lady--and they said she was just a picture of a woman, and iver so +many gentlemen had been wantin' to marry her, but she just waited +for Charley Kinraid, yo' see!' + +'Well, I hope they'll be happy; I'm sure I do!' said Sylvia. + +'That's just luck. Some folks is happy i' marriage, and some isn't. +It's just luck, and there's no forecasting it. Men is such +unaccountable animals, there's no prophesyin' upon 'em. Who'd ha' +thought of yo'r husband, him as was so slow and sure--steady Philip, +as we lasses used to ca' him--makin' a moonlight flittin', and +leavin' yo' to be a widow bewitched?' + +'He didn't go at night,' said Sylvia, taking the words 'moonlight +flitting' in their literal sense. + +'No! Well, I only said "moonlight flittin'" just because it come +uppermost and I knowed no better. Tell me all about it, Sylvie, for +I can't mak' it out from what Bessy says. Had he and yo' had +words?--but in course yo' had.' + +At this moment Hester came into the room; and Sylvia joyfully +availed herself of the pretext for breaking off the conversation +that had reached this painful and awkward point. She detained Hester +in the room for fear lest Mrs. Brunton should repeat her inquiry as +to how it all happened that Philip had gone away; but the presence +of a third person seemed as though it would be but little restraint +upon the inquisitive Molly, who repeatedly bore down upon the same +questions till she nearly drove Sylvia distracted, between her +astonishment at the news of Kinraid's marriage; her wish to be alone +and quiet, so as to realize the full meaning of that piece of +intelligence; her desire to retain Hester in the conversation; her +efforts to prevent Molly's recurrence to the circumstances of +Philip's disappearance, and the longing--more vehement every +minute--for her visitor to go away and leave her in peace. She +became so disturbed with all these thoughts and feelings that she +hardly knew what she was saying, and assented or dissented to +speeches without there being either any reason or truth in her +words. + +Mrs. Brunton had arranged to remain with Sylvia while the horse +rested, and had no compunction about the length of her visit. She +expected to be asked to tea, as Sylvia found out at last, and this +she felt would be the worst of all, as Alice Rose was not one to +tolerate the coarse, careless talk of such a woman as Mrs. Brunton +without uplifting her voice in many a testimony against it. Sylvia +sate holding Hester's gown tight in order to prevent her leaving the +room, and trying to arrange her little plans so that too much +discordance should not arise to the surface. Just then the door +opened, and little Bella came in from the kitchen in all the pretty, +sturdy dignity of two years old, Alice following her with careful +steps, and protecting, outstretched arms, a slow smile softening the +sternness of her grave face; for the child was the unconscious +darling of the household, and all eyes softened into love as they +looked on her. She made straight for her mother with something +grasped in her little dimpled fist; but half-way across the room she +seemed to have become suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger, +and she stopped short, fixing her serious eyes full on Mrs. Brunton, +as if to take in her appearance, nay, as if to penetrate down into +her very real self, and then, stretching out her disengaged hand, +the baby spoke out the words that had been hovering about her +mother's lips for an hour past. + +'Do away!' said Bella, decisively. + +'What a perfect love!' said Mrs. Brunton, half in real admiration, +half in patronage. As she spoke, she got up and went towards the +child, as if to take her up. + +'Do away! do away!' cried Bella, in shrill affright at this +movement. + +'Dunnot,' said Sylvia; 'she's shy; she doesn't know strangers.' + +But Mrs. Brunton had grasped the struggling, kicking child by this +time, and her reward for this was a vehement little slap in the +face. + +'Yo' naughty little spoilt thing!' said she, setting Bella down in a +hurry. 'Yo' deserve a good whipping, yo' do, and if yo' were mine +yo' should have it.' + +Sylvia had no need to stand up for the baby who had run to her arms, +and was soothing herself with sobbing on her mother's breast; for +Alice took up the defence. + +'The child said, as plain as words could say, "go away," and if thou +wouldst follow thine own will instead of heeding her wish, thou mun +put up with the wilfulness of the old Adam, of which it seems to me +thee hast getten thy share at thirty as well as little Bella at +two.' + +'Thirty!' said Mrs. Brunton, now fairly affronted. 'Thirty! why, +Sylvia, yo' know I'm but two years older than yo'; speak to that +woman an' tell her as I'm only four-and-twenty. Thirty, indeed!' + +'Molly's but four-and-twenty,' said Sylvia, in a pacificatory tone. + +'Whether she be twenty, or thirty, or forty, is alike to me,' said +Alice. 'I meant no harm. I meant but for t' say as her angry words +to the child bespoke her to be one of the foolish. I know not who +she is, nor what her age may be.' + +'She's an old friend of mine,' said Sylvia. 'She's Mrs. Brunton now, +but when I knowed her she was Molly Corney.' + +'Ay! and yo' were Sylvia Robson, and as bonny and light-hearted a +lass as any in a' t' Riding, though now yo're a poor widow +bewitched, left wi' a child as I mustn't speak a word about, an' +living wi' folk as talk about t' old Adam as if he wasn't dead and +done wi' long ago! It's a change, Sylvia, as makes my heart ache for +yo', to think on them old days when yo' were so thought on yo' might +have had any man, as Brunton often says; it were a great mistake as +yo' iver took up wi' yon man as has run away. But seven year '11 +soon be past fro' t' time he went off, and yo'll only be +six-and-twenty then; and there'll be a chance of a better husband +for yo' after all, so keep up yo'r heart, Sylvia.' + +Molly Brunton had put as much venom as she knew how into this +speech, meaning it as a vengeful payment for the supposition of her +being thirty, even more than for the reproof for her angry words +about the child. She thought that Alice Rose must be either mother +or aunt to Philip, from the serious cast of countenance that was +remarkable in both; and she rather exulted in the allusion to a +happier second marriage for Sylvia, with which she had concluded her +speech. It roused Alice, however, as effectually as if she had been +really a blood relation to Philip; but for a different reason. She +was not slow to detect the intentional offensiveness to herself in +what had been said; she was indignant at Sylvia for suffering the +words spoken to pass unanswered; but in truth they were too much in +keeping with Molly Brunton's character to make as much impression on +Sylvia as they did on a stranger; and besides, she felt as if the +less reply Molly received, the less likely would it be that she +would go on in the same strain. So she coaxed and chattered to her +child and behaved like a little coward in trying to draw out of the +conversation, while at the same time listening attentively. + +'As for Sylvia Hepburn as was Sylvia Robson, she knows my mind,' +said Alice, in grim indignation. 'She's humbling herself now, I +trust and pray, but she was light-minded and full of vanity when +Philip married her, and it might ha' been a lift towards her +salvation in one way; but it pleased the Lord to work in a different +way, and she mun wear her sackcloth and ashes in patience. So I'll +say naught more about her. But for him as is absent, as thee hast +spoken on so lightly and reproachfully, I'd have thee to know he +were one of a different kind to any thee ever knew, I reckon. If he +were led away by a pretty face to slight one as was fitter for him, +and who had loved him as the apple of her eye, it's him as is +suffering for it, inasmuch as he's a wanderer from his home, and an +outcast from wife and child.' + +To the surprise of all, Molly's words of reply were cut short even +when they were on her lips, by Sylvia. Pale, fire-eyed, and excited, +with Philip's child on one arm, and the other stretched out, she +said,-- + +'Noane can tell--noane know. No one shall speak a judgment 'twixt +Philip and me. He acted cruel and wrong by me. But I've said my +words to him hissel', and I'm noane going to make any plaint to +others; only them as knows should judge. And it's not fitting, it's +not' (almost sobbing), 'to go on wi' talk like this afore me.' + +The two--for Hester, who was aware that her presence had only been +desired by Sylvia as a check to an unpleasant _tete-a-tete_ +conversation, had slipped back to her business as soon as her mother +came in--the two looked with surprise at Sylvia; her words, her +whole manner, belonged to a phase of her character which seldom came +uppermost, and which had not been perceived by either of them +before. + +Alice Rose, though astonished, rather approved of Sylvia's speech; +it showed that she had more serious thought and feeling on the +subject than the old woman had given her credit for; her general +silence respecting her husband's disappearance had led Alice to +think that she was too childish to have received any deep impression +from the event. Molly Brunton gave vent to her opinion on Sylvia's +speech in the following words:-- + +'Hoighty-toighty! That tells tales, lass. If yo' treated steady +Philip to many such looks an' speeches as yo'n given us now, it's +easy t' see why he took hisself off. Why, Sylvia, I niver saw it in +yo' when yo' was a girl; yo're grown into a regular little vixen, +theere wheere yo' stand!' + +Indeed she did look defiant, with the swift colour flushing her +cheeks to crimson on its return, and the fire in her eyes not yet +died away. But at Molly's jesting words she sank back into her usual +look and manner, only saying quietly,-- + +'It's for noane to say whether I'm vixen or not, as doesn't know th' +past things as is buried in my heart. But I cannot hold them as my +friends as go on talking on either my husband or me before my very +face. What he was, I know; and what I am, I reckon he knows. And now +I'll go hurry tea, for yo'll be needing it, Molly!' + +The last clause of this speech was meant to make peace; but Molly +was in twenty minds as to whether she should accept the olive-branch +or not. Her temper, however, was of that obtuse kind which is not +easily ruffled; her mind, stagnant in itself, enjoyed excitement +from without; and her appetite was invariably good, so she stayed, +in spite of the inevitable _tete-a-tete_ with Alice. The latter, +however, refused to be drawn into conversation again; replying to +Mrs. Brunton's speeches with a curt yes or no, when, indeed, she +replied at all. + +When all were gathered at tea, Sylvia was quite calm again; rather +paler than usual, and very attentive and subduced in her behaviour +to Alice; she would evidently fain have been silent, but as Molly +was her own especial guest, that could not be, so all her endeavours +went towards steering the conversation away from any awkward points. +But each of the four, let alone little Bella, was thankful when the +market-cart drew up at the shop door, that was to take Mrs. Brunton +back to her sister's house. + +When she was fairly off, Alice Rose opened her mouth in strong +condemnation; winding up with-- + +'And if aught in my words gave thee cause for offence, Sylvia, it +was because my heart rose within me at the kind of talk thee and she +had been having about Philip; and her evil and light-minded counsel +to thee about waiting seven years, and then wedding another.' + +Hard as these words may seem when repeated, there was something of a +nearer approach to an apology in Mrs. Rose's manner than Sylvia had +ever seen in it before. She was silent for a few moments, then she +said,-- + +'I ha' often thought of telling yo' and Hester, special-like, when +yo've been so kind to my little Bella, that Philip an' me could +niver come together again; no, not if he came home this very +night----' + +She would have gone on speaking, but Hester interrupted her with a +low cry of dismay. + +Alice said,-- + +'Hush thee, Hester. It's no business o' thine. Sylvia Hepburn, +thou'rt speaking like a silly child.' + +'No. I'm speaking like a woman; like a woman as finds out she's been +cheated by men as she trusted, and as has no help for it. I'm noane +going to say any more about it. It's me as has been wronged, and as +has to bear it: only I thought I'd tell yo' both this much, that yo' +might know somewhat why he went away, and how I said my last word +about it.' + +So indeed it seemed. To all questions and remonstrances from Alice, +Sylvia turned a deaf ear. She averted her face from Hester's sad, +wistful looks; only when they were parting for the night, at the top +of the little staircase, she turned, and putting her arms round +Hester's neck she laid her head on her neck, and whispered,-- + +'Poor Hester--poor, poor Hester! if yo' an' he had but been married +together, what a deal o' sorrow would ha' been spared to us all!' + +Hester pushed her away as she finished these words; looked +searchingly into her face, her eyes, and then followed Sylvia into +her room, where Bella lay sleeping, shut the door, and almost knelt +down at Sylvia's feet, clasping her, and hiding her face in the +folds of the other's gown. + +'Sylvia, Sylvia,' she murmured, 'some one has told you--I thought no +one knew--it's no sin--it's done away with now--indeed it is--it was +long ago--before yo' were married; but I cannot forget. It was a +shame, perhaps, to have thought on it iver, when he niver thought o' +me; but I niver believed as any one could ha' found it out. I'm just +fit to sink into t' ground, what wi' my sorrow and my shame.' + +Hester was stopped by her own rising sobs, immediately she was in +Sylvia's arms. Sylvia was sitting on the ground holding her, and +soothing her with caresses and broken words. + +'I'm allays saying t' wrong things,' said she. 'It seems as if I +were all upset to-day; and indeed I am;' she added, alluding to the +news of Kinraid's marriage she had yet to think upon. + +'But it wasn't yo', Hester: it were nothing yo' iver said, or did, +or looked, for that matter. It were yo'r mother as let it out.' + +'Oh, mother! mother!' wailed out Hester; 'I niver thought as any one +but God would ha' known that I had iver for a day thought on his +being more to me than a brother.' + +Sylvia made no reply, only went on stroking Hester's smooth brown +hair, off which her cap had fallen. Sylvia was thinking how strange +life was, and how love seemed to go all at cross purposes; and was +losing herself in bewilderment at the mystery of the world; she was +almost startled when Hester rose up, and taking Sylvia's hands in +both of hers, and looking solemnly at her, said,-- + +'Sylvia, yo' know what has been my trouble and my shame, and I'm +sure yo're sorry for me--for I will humble myself to yo', and own +that for many months before yo' were married, I felt my +disappointment like a heavy burden laid on me by day and by night; +but now I ask yo', if yo've any pity for me for what I went through, +or if yo've any love for me because of yo'r dead mother's love for +me, or because of any fellowship, or daily breadliness between us +two,--put the hard thoughts of Philip away from out yo'r heart; he +may ha' done yo' wrong, anyway yo' think that he has; I niver knew +him aught but kind and good; but if he comes back from wheriver in +th' wide world he's gone to (and there's not a night but I pray God +to keep him, and send him safe back), yo' put away the memory of +past injury, and forgive it all, and be, what yo' can be, Sylvia, if +you've a mind to, just the kind, good wife he ought to have.' + +'I cannot; yo' know nothing about it, Hester.' + +'Tell me, then,' pleaded Hester. + +'No!' said Sylvia, after a moment's hesitation; 'I'd do a deal for +yo', I would, but I daren't forgive Philip, even if I could; I took +a great oath again' him. Ay, yo' may look shocked at me, but it's +him as yo' ought for to be shocked at if yo' knew all. I said I'd +niver forgive him; I shall keep to my word.' + +'I think I'd better pray for his death, then,' said Hester, +hopelessly, and almost bitterly, loosing her hold of Sylvia's hands. + +'If it weren't for baby theere, I could think as it were my death as +'ud be best. Them as one thinks t' most on, forgets one soonest.' + +It was Kinraid to whom she was alluding; but Hester did not +understand her; and after standing for a moment in silence, she +kissed her, and left her for the night. + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER + + +After this agitation, and these partial confidences, no more was +said on the subject of Philip for many weeks. They avoided even the +slightest allusion to him; and none of them knew how seldom or how +often he might be present in the minds of the others. + +One day the little Bella was unusually fractious with some slight +childish indisposition, and Sylvia was obliged to have recourse to a +never-failing piece of amusement; namely, to take the child into the +shop, when the number of new, bright-coloured articles was sure to +beguile the little girl out of her fretfulness. She was walking +along the high terrace of the counter, kept steady by her mother's +hand, when Mr. Dawson's market-cart once more stopped before the +door. But it was not Mrs. Brunton who alighted now; it was a very +smartly-dressed, very pretty young lady, who put one dainty foot +before the other with care, as if descending from such a primitive +vehicle were a new occurrence in her life. Then she looked up at the +names above the shop-door, and after ascertaining that this was +indeed the place she desired to find, she came in blushing. + +'Is Mrs. Hepburn at home?' she asked of Hester, whose position in the +shop brought her forwards to receive the customers, while Sylvia +drew Bella out of sight behind some great bales of red flannel. + +'Can I see her?' the sweet, south-country voice went on, still +addressing Hester. Sylvia heard the inquiry, and came forwards, with +a little rustic awkwardness, feeling both shy and curious. + +'Will yo' please walk this way, ma'am?' said she, leading her +visitor back into her own dominion of the parlour, and leaving Bella +to Hester's willing care. + +'You don't know me!' said the pretty young lady, joyously. 'But I +think you knew my husband. I am Mrs. Kinraid!' + +A sob of surprise rose to Sylvia's lips--she choked it down, +however, and tried to conceal any emotion she might feel, in placing +a chair for her visitor, and trying to make her feel welcome, +although, if the truth must be told, Sylvia was wondering all the +time why her visitor came, and how soon she would go. + +'You knew Captain Kinraid, did you not?' said the young lady, with +innocent inquiry; to which Sylvia's lips formed the answer, 'Yes,' +but no clear sound issued therefrom. + +'But I know your husband knew the captain; is he at home yet? Can I +speak to him? I do so want to see him.' + +Sylvia was utterly bewildered; Mrs. Kinraid, this pretty, joyous, +prosperous little bird of a woman, Philip, Charley's wife, what +could they have in common? what could they know of each other? All +she could say in answer to Mrs. Kinraid's eager questions, and still +more eager looks, was, that her husband was from home, had been long +from home: she did not know where he was, she did not know when he +would come back. + +Mrs. Kinraid's face fell a little, partly from her own real +disappointment, partly out of sympathy with the hopeless, +indifferent tone of Sylvia's replies. + +'Mrs. Dawson told me he had gone away rather suddenly a year ago, but +I thought he might be come home by now. I am expecting the captain +early next month. Oh! how I should have liked to see Mr. Hepburn, and +to thank him for saving the captain's life!' + +'What do yo' mean?' asked Sylvia, stirred out of all assumed +indifference. 'The captain! is that' (not 'Charley', she could not +use that familiar name to the pretty young wife before her) 'yo'r +husband?' + +'Yes, you knew him, didn't you? when he used to be staying with Mr +Corney, his uncle?' + +'Yes, I knew him; but I don't understand. Will yo' please to tell me +all about it, ma'am?' said Sylvia, faintly. + +'I thought your husband would have told you all about it; I hardly +know where to begin. You know my husband is a sailor?' + +Sylvia nodded assent, listening greedily, her heart beating thick +all the time. + +'And he's now a Commander in the Royal Navy, all earned by his own +bravery! Oh! I am so proud of him!' + +So could Sylvia have been if she had been his wife; as it was, she +thought how often she had felt sure that he would be a great man +some day. + +'And he has been at the siege of Acre.' + +Sylvia looked perplexed at these strange words, and Mrs. Kinraid +caught the look. + +'St Jean d'Acre, you know--though it's fine saying "you know", when +I didn't know a bit about it myself till the captain's ship was +ordered there, though I was the head girl at Miss Dobbin's in the +geography class--Acre is a seaport town, not far from Jaffa, which +is the modern name for Joppa, where St Paul went to long ago; you've +read of that, I'm sure, and Mount Carmel, where the prophet Elijah +was once, all in Palestine, you know, only the Turks have got it +now?' + +'But I don't understand yet,' said Sylvia, plaintively; 'I daresay +it's all very true about St Paul, but please, ma'am, will yo' tell +me about yo'r husband and mine--have they met again?' + +'Yes, at Acre, I tell you,' said Mrs. Kinraid, with pretty petulance. +'The Turks held the town, and the French wanted to take it; and we, +that is the British Fleet, wouldn't let them. So Sir Sidney Smith, a +commodore and a great friend of the captain's, landed in order to +fight the French; and the captain and many of the sailors landed +with him; and it was burning hot; and the poor captain was wounded, +and lay a-dying of pain and thirst within the enemy's--that is the +French--fire; so that they were ready to shoot any one of his own +side who came near him. They thought he was dead himself, you see, +as he was very near; and would have been too, if your husband had +not come out of shelter, and taken him up in his arms or on his back +(I couldn't make out which), and carried him safe within the walls.' + +'It couldn't have been Philip,' said Sylvia, dubiously. + +'But it was. The captain says so; and he's not a man to be mistaken. +I thought I'd got his letter with me; and I would have read you a +part of it, but I left it at Mrs. Dawson's in my desk; and I can't +send it to you,' blushing as she remembered certain passages in +which 'the captain' wrote very much like a lover, 'or else I would. +But you may be quite sure it was your husband that ventured into all +that danger to save his old friend's life, or the captain would not +have said so.' + +'But they weren't--they weren't--not to call great friends.' + +'I wish I'd got the letter here; I can't think how I could be so +stupid; I think I can almost remember the very words, though--I've +read them over so often. He says, "Just as I gave up all hope, I saw +one Philip Hepburn, a man whom I had known at Monkshaven, and whom I +had some reason to remember well"--(I'm sure he says so--"remember +well"), "he saw me too, and came at the risk of his life to where I +lay. I fully expected he would be shot down; and I shut my eyes not +to see the end of my last chance. The shot rained about him, and I +think he was hit; but he took me up and carried me under cover." I'm +sure he says that, I've read it over so often; and he goes on and +says how he hunted for Mr. Hepburn all through the ships, as soon as +ever he could; but he could hear nothing of him, either alive or +dead. Don't go so white, for pity's sake!' said she, suddenly +startled by Sylvia's blanching colour. 'You see, because he couldn't +find him alive is no reason for giving him up as dead; because his +name wasn't to be found on any of the ships' books; so the captain +thinks he must have been known by a different name to his real one. +Only he says he should like to have seen him to have thanked him; +and he says he would give a deal to know what has become of him; and +as I was staying two days at Mrs. Dawson's, I told them I must come +over to Monkshaven, if only for five minutes, just to hear if your +good husband was come home, and to shake his hands, that helped to +save my own dear captain.' + +'I don't think it could have been Philip,' reiterated Sylvia. + +'Why not?' asked her visitor; 'you say you don't know where he is; +why mightn't he have been there where the captain says he was?' + +'But he wasn't a sailor, nor yet a soldier.' + +'Oh! but he was. I think somewhere the captain calls him a marine; +that's neither one nor the other, but a little of both. He'll be +coming home some day soon; and then you'll see!' + +Alice Rose came in at this minute, and Mrs. Kinraid jumped to the +conclusion that she was Sylvia's mother, and in her overflowing +gratitude and friendliness to all the family of him who had 'saved +the captain' she went forward, and shook the old woman's hand in +that pleasant confiding way that wins all hearts. + +'Here's your daughter, ma'am!' said she to the half-astonished, +half-pleased Alice. 'I'm Mrs. Kinraid, the wife of the captain that +used to be in these parts, and I'm come to bring her news of her +husband, and she don't half believe me, though it's all to his +credit, I'm sure.' + +Alice looked so perplexed that Sylvia felt herself bound to explain. + +'She says he's either a soldier or a sailor, and a long way off at +some place named in t' Bible.' + +'Philip Hepburn led away to be a soldier!' said she, 'who had once +been a Quaker?' + +'Yes, and a very brave one too, and one that it would do my heart +good to look upon,' exclaimed Mrs. Kinraid. 'He's been saving my +husband's life in the Holy Land, where Jerusalem is, you know.' + +'Nay!' said Alice, a little scornfully. 'I can forgive Sylvia for +not being over keen to credit thy news. Her man of peace becoming a +man of war; and suffered to enter Jerusalem, which is a heavenly and +a typical city at this time; while me, as is one of the elect, is +obliged to go on dwelling in Monkshaven, just like any other body.' + +'Nay, but,' said Mrs. Kinraid, gently, seeing she was touching on +delicate ground, 'I did not say he had gone to Jerusalem, but my +husband saw him in those parts, and he was doing his duty like a +brave, good man; ay, and more than his duty; and, you may take my +word for it, he'll be at home some day soon, and all I beg is that +you'll let the captain and me know, for I'm sure if we can, we'll +both come and pay our respects to him. And I'm very glad I've seen +you,' said she, rising to go, and putting out her hand to shake that +of Sylvia; 'for, besides being Hepburn's wife, I'm pretty sure I've +heard the captain speak of you; and if ever you come to Bristol I +hope you'll come and see us on Clifton Downs.' + +She went away, leaving Sylvia almost stunned by the new ideas +presented to her. Philip a soldier! Philip in a battle, risking his +life. Most strange of all, Charley and Philip once more meeting +together, not as rivals or as foes, but as saviour and saved! Add to +all this the conviction, strengthened by every word that happy, +loving wife had uttered, that Kinraid's old, passionate love for +herself had faded away and vanished utterly: its very existence +apparently blotted out of his memory. She had torn up her love for +him by the roots, but she felt as if she could never forget that it +had been. + +Hester brought back Bella to her mother. She had not liked to +interrupt the conversation with the strange lady before; and now she +found her mother in an obvious state of excitement; Sylvia quieter +than usual. + +'That was Kinraid's wife, Hester! Him that was th' specksioneer as +made such a noise about t' place at the time of Darley's death. He's +now a captain--a navy captain, according to what she says. And she'd +fain have us believe that Philip is abiding in all manner of +Scripture places; places as has been long done away with, but the +similitude whereof is in the heavens, where the elect shall one day +see them. And she says Philip is there, and a soldier, and that he +saved her husband's life, and is coming home soon. I wonder what +John and Jeremiah 'll say to his soldiering then? It'll noane be to +their taste, I'm thinking.' + +This was all very unintelligible to Hester, and she would dearly +have liked to question Sylvia; but Sylvia sate a little apart, with +Bella on her knee, her cheek resting on her child's golden curls, +and her eyes fixed and almost trance-like, as if she were seeing +things not present. + +So Hester had to be content with asking her mother as many +elucidatory questions as she could; and after all did not gain a +very clear idea of what had really been said by Mrs. Kinraid, as her +mother was more full of the apparent injustice of Philip's being +allowed the privilege of treading on holy ground--if, indeed, that +holy ground existed on this side heaven, which she was inclined to +dispute--than to confine herself to the repetition of words, or +narration of facts. + +Suddenly Sylvia roused herself to a sense of Hester's deep interest +and balked inquiries, and she went over the ground rapidly. + +'Yo'r mother says right--she is his wife. And he's away fighting; +and got too near t' French as was shooting and firing all round him; +and just then, according to her story, Philip saw him, and went +straight into t' midst o' t' shots, and fetched him out o' danger. +That's what she says, and upholds.' + +'And why should it not be?' asked Hester, her cheek flushing. + +But Sylvia only shook her head, and said, + +'I cannot tell. It may be so. But they'd little cause to be friends, +and it seems all so strange--Philip a soldier, and them meeting +theere after all!' + +Hester laid the story of Philip's bravery to her heart--she fully +believed in it. Sylvia pondered it more deeply still; the causes for +her disbelief, or, at any rate, for her wonder, were unknown to +Hester! Many a time she sank to sleep with the picture of the event +narrated by Mrs. Kinraid as present to her mind as her imagination or +experience could make it: first one figure prominent, then another. +Many a morning she wakened up, her heart beating wildly, why, she +knew not, till she shuddered at the remembrance of the scenes that +had passed in her dreams: scenes that might be acted in reality that +very day; for Philip might come back, and then? + +And where was Philip all this time, these many weeks, these heavily +passing months? + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +THE BEDESMAN OF ST SEPULCHRE + + +Philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship. If his heart had +been light, he might have rallied sooner; but he was so depressed he +did not care to live. His shattered jaw-bone, his burnt and +blackened face, his many injuries of body, were torture to both his +physical frame, and his sick, weary heart. No more chance for him, +if indeed there ever had been any, of returning gay and gallant, and +thus regaining his wife's love. This had been his poor, foolish +vision in the first hour of his enlistment; and the vain dream had +recurred more than once in the feverish stage of excitement which +the new scenes into which he had been hurried as a recruit had +called forth. But that was all over now. He knew that it was the +most unlikely thing in the world to have come to pass; and yet those +were happy days when he could think of it as barely possible. Now +all he could look forward to was disfigurement, feebleness, and the +bare pittance that keeps pensioners from absolute want. + +Those around him were kind enough to him in their fashion, and +attended to his bodily requirements; but they had no notion of +listening to any revelations of unhappiness, if Philip had been the +man to make confidences of that kind. As it was, he lay very still +in his berth, seldom asking for anything, and always saying he was +better, when the ship-surgeon came round with his daily inquiries. +But he did not care to rally, and was rather sorry to find that his +case was considered so interesting in a surgical point of view, that +he was likely to receive a good deal more than the average amount of +attention. Perhaps it was owing to this that he recovered at all. +The doctors said it was the heat that made him languid, for that his +wounds and burns were all doing well at last; and by-and-by they +told him they had ordered him 'home'. His pulse sank under the +surgeon's finger at the mention of the word; but he did not say a +word. He was too indifferent to life and the world to have a will; +otherwise they might have kept their pet patient a little longer +where he was. + +Slowly passing from ship to ship as occasion served; resting here +and there in garrison hospitals, Philip at length reached Portsmouth +on the evening of a September day in 1799. The transport-ship in +which he was, was loaded with wounded and invalided soldiers and +sailors; all who could manage it in any way struggled on deck to +catch the first view of the white coasts of England. One man lifted +his arm, took off his cap, and feebly waved it aloft, crying, 'Old +England for ever!' in a faint shrill voice, and then burst into +tears and sobbed aloud. Others tried to pipe up 'Rule Britannia', +while more sate, weak and motionless, looking towards the shores +that once, not so long ago, they never thought to see again. Philip +was one of these; his place a little apart from the other men. He +was muffled up in a great military cloak that had been given him by +one of his officers; he felt the September breeze chill after his +sojourn in a warmer climate, and in his shattered state of health. + +As the ship came in sight of Portsmouth harbour, the signal flags +ran up the ropes; the beloved Union Jack floated triumphantly over +all. Return signals were made from the harbour; on board all became +bustle and preparation for landing; while on shore there was the +evident movement of expectation, and men in uniform were seen +pressing their way to the front, as if to them belonged the right of +reception. They were the men from the barrack hospital, that had +been signalled for, come down with ambulance litters and other marks +of forethought for the sick and wounded, who were returning to the +country for which they had fought and suffered. + +With a dash and a great rocking swing the vessel came up to her +appointed place, and was safely moored. Philip sat still, almost as +if he had no part in the cries of welcome, the bustling care, the +loud directions that cut the air around him, and pierced his nerves +through and through. But one in authority gave the order; and +Philip, disciplined to obedience, rose to find his knapsack and +leave the ship. Passive as he seemed to be, he had his likings for +particular comrades; there was one especially, a man as different +from Philip as well could be, to whom the latter had always attached +himself; a merry fellow from Somersetshire, who was almost always +cheerful and bright, though Philip had overheard the doctors say he +would never be the man he was before he had that shot through the +side. This marine would often sit making his fellows laugh, and +laughing himself at his own good-humoured jokes, till so terrible a +fit of coughing came on that those around him feared he would die in +the paroxysm. After one of these fits he had gasped out some words, +which led Philip to question him a little; and it turned out that in +the quiet little village of Potterne, far inland, nestled beneath +the high stretches of Salisbury Plain, he had a wife and a child, a +little girl, just the same age even to a week as Philip's own little +Bella. It was this that drew Philip towards the man; and this that +made Philip wait and go ashore along with the poor consumptive +marine. + +The litters had moved off towards the hospital, the sergeant in +charge had given his words of command to the remaining invalids, who +tried to obey them to the best of their power, falling into +something like military order for their march; but soon, very soon, +the weakest broke step, and lagged behind; and felt as if the rough +welcomes and rude expressions of sympathy from the crowd around were +almost too much for them. Philip and his companion were about +midway, when suddenly a young woman with a child in her arms forced +herself through the people, between the soldiers who kept pressing +on either side, and threw herself on the neck of Philip's friend. + +'Oh, Jem!' she sobbed, 'I've walked all the road from Potterne. I've +never stopped but for food and rest for Nelly, and now I've got you +once again, I've got you once again, bless God for it!' + +She did not seem to see the deadly change that had come over her +husband since she parted with him a ruddy young labourer; she had +got him once again, as she phrased it, and that was enough for her; +she kissed his face, his hands, his very coat, nor would she be +repulsed from walking beside him and holding his hand, while her +little girl ran along scared by the voices and the strange faces, +and clinging to her mammy's gown. + +Jem coughed, poor fellow! he coughed his churchyard cough; and +Philip bitterly envied him--envied his life, envied his approaching +death; for was he not wrapped round with that woman's tender love, +and is not such love stronger than death? Philip had felt as if his +own heart was grown numb, and as though it had changed to a cold +heavy stone. But at the contrast of this man's lot to his own, he +felt that he had yet the power of suffering left to him. + +The road they had to go was full of people, kept off in some measure +by the guard of soldiers. All sorts of kindly speeches, and many a +curious question, were addressed to the poor invalids as they walked +along. Philip's jaw, and the lower part of his face, were bandaged +up; his cap was slouched down; he held his cloak about him, and +shivered within its folds. + +They came to a standstill from some slight obstacle at the corner of +a street. Down the causeway of this street a naval officer with a +lady on his arm was walking briskly, with a step that told of health +and a light heart. He stayed his progress though, when he saw the +convoy of maimed and wounded men; he said something, of which Philip +only caught the words, 'same uniform,' 'for his sake,' to the young +lady, whose cheek blanched a little, but whose eyes kindled. Then +leaving her for an instant, he pressed forward; he was close to +Philip,--poor sad Philip absorbed in his own thoughts,--so absorbed +that he noticed nothing till he heard a voice at his ear, having the +Northumbrian burr, the Newcastle inflections which he knew of old, +and that were to him like the sick memory of a deadly illness; and +then he turned his muffled face to the speaker, though he knew well +enough who it was, and averted his eyes after one sight of the +handsome, happy man,--the man whose life he had saved once, and +would save again, at the risk of his own, but whom, for all that, he +prayed that he might never meet more on earth. + +'Here, my fine fellow, take this,' forcing a crown piece into +Philip's hand. 'I wish it were more; I'd give you a pound if I had +it with me.' + +Philip muttered something, and held out the coin to Captain Kinraid, +of course in vain; nor was there time to urge it back upon the +giver, for the obstacle to their progress was suddenly removed, the +crowd pressed upon the captain and his wife, the procession moved +on, and Philip along with it, holding the piece in his hand, and +longing to throw it far away. Indeed he was on the point of dropping +it, hoping to do so unperceived, when he bethought him of giving it +to Jem's wife, the footsore woman, limping happily along by her +husband's side. They thanked him, and spoke in his praise more than +he could well bear. It was no credit to him to give that away which +burned his fingers as long as he kept it. + +Philip knew that the injuries he had received in the explosion on +board the _Theseus_ would oblige him to leave the service. He also +believed that they would entitle him to a pension. But he had little +interest in his future life; he was without hope, and in a depressed +state of health. He remained for some little time stationary, and +then went through all the forms of dismissal on account of wounds +received in service, and was turned out loose upon the world, +uncertain where to go, indifferent as to what became of him. + +It was fine, warm October weather as he turned his back upon the +coast, and set off on his walk northwards. Green leaves were yet +upon the trees; the hedges were one flush of foliage and the wild +rough-flavoured fruits of different kinds; the fields were tawny +with the uncleared-off stubble, or emerald green with the growth of +the aftermath. The roadside cottage gardens were gay with hollyhocks +and Michaelmas daisies and marigolds, and the bright panes of the +windows glittered through a veil of China roses. + +The war was a popular one, and, as a natural consequence, soldiers +and sailors were heroes everywhere. Philip's long drooping form, his +arm hung in a sling, his face scarred and blackened, his jaw bound +up with a black silk handkerchief; these marks of active service +were reverenced by the rustic cottagers as though they had been +crowns and sceptres. Many a hard-handed labourer left his seat by +the chimney corner, and came to his door to have a look at one who +had been fighting the French, and pushed forward to have a grasp of +the stranger's hand as he gave back the empty cup into the good +wife's keeping, for the kind homely women were ever ready with milk +or homebrewed to slake the feverish traveller's thirst when he +stopped at their doors and asked for a drink of water. + +At the village public-house he had had a welcome of a more +interested character, for the landlord knew full well that his +circle of customers would be large that night, if it was only known +that he had within his doors a soldier or a sailor who had seen +service. The rustic politicians would gather round Philip, and smoke +and drink, and then question and discuss till they were drouthy +again; and in their sturdy obtuse minds they set down the extra +glass and the supernumerary pipe to the score of patriotism. + +Altogether human nature turned its sunny side out to Philip just +now; and not before he needed the warmth of brotherly kindness to +cheer his shivering soul. Day after day he drifted northwards, +making but the slow progress of a feeble man, and yet this short +daily walk tired him so much that he longed for rest--for the +morning to come when he needed not to feel that in the course of an +hour or two he must be up and away. + +He was toiling on with this longing at his heart when he saw that he +was drawing near a stately city, with a great old cathedral in the +centre keeping solemn guard. This place might be yet two or three +miles distant; he was on a rising ground looking down upon it. A +labouring man passing by, observed his pallid looks and his languid +attitude, and told him for his comfort, that if he turned down a +lane to the left a few steps farther on, he would find himself at +the Hospital of St Sepulchre, where bread and beer were given to all +comers, and where he might sit him down and rest awhile on the old +stone benches within the shadow of the gateway. Obeying these +directions, Philip came upon a building which dated from the time of +Henry the Fifth. Some knight who had fought in the French wars of +that time, and had survived his battles and come home to his old +halls, had been stirred up by his conscience, or by what was +equivalent in those days, his confessor, to build and endow a +hospital for twelve decayed soldiers, and a chapel wherein they were +to attend the daily masses he ordained to be said till the end of +all time (which eternity lasted rather more than a century, pretty +well for an eternity bespoken by a man), for his soul and the souls +of those whom he had slain. There was a large division of the +quadrangular building set apart for the priest who was to say these +masses; and to watch over the well-being of the bedesmen. In process +of years the origin and primary purpose of the hospital had been +forgotten by all excepting the local antiquaries; and the place +itself came to be regarded as a very pleasant quaint set of +almshouses; and the warden's office (he who should have said or sung +his daily masses was now called the warden, and read daily prayers +and preached a sermon on Sundays) an agreeable sinecure. + +Another legacy of old Sir Simon Bray was that of a small croft of +land, the rent or profits of which were to go towards giving to all +who asked for it a manchet of bread and a cup of good beer. This +beer was, so Sir Simon ordained, to be made after a certain receipt +which he left, in which ground ivy took the place of hops. But the +receipt, as well as the masses, was modernized according to the +progress of time. + +Philip stood under a great broad stone archway; the back-door into +the warden's house was on the right side; a kind of buttery-hatch +was placed by the porter's door on the opposite side. After some +consideration, Philip knocked at the closed shutter, and the signal +seemed to be well understood. He heard a movement within; the hatch +was drawn aside, and his bread and beer were handed to him by a +pleasant-looking old man, who proved himself not at all disinclined +for conversation. + +'You may sit down on yonder bench,' said he. 'Nay, man! sit i' the +sun, for it's a chilly place, this, and then you can look through +the grate and watch th' old fellows toddling about in th' quad.' + +Philip sat down where the warm October sun slanted upon him, and +looked through the iron railing at the peaceful sight. + +A great square of velvet lawn, intersected diagonally with broad +flag-paved walks, the same kind of walk going all round the +quadrangle; low two-storied brick houses, tinted gray and yellow by +age, and in many places almost covered with vines, Virginian +creepers, and monthly roses; before each house a little plot of +garden ground, bright with flowers, and evidently tended with the +utmost care; on the farther side the massive chapel; here and there +an old or infirm man sunning himself, or leisurely doing a bit of +gardening, or talking to one of his comrades--the place looked as if +care and want, and even sorrow, were locked out and excluded by the +ponderous gate through which Philip was gazing. + +'It's a nice enough place, bean't it?' said the porter, interpreting +Philip's looks pretty accurately. 'Leastways, for them as likes it. +I've got a bit weary on it myself; it's so far from th' world, as a +man may say; not a decent public within a mile and a half, where one +can hear a bit o' news of an evening.' + +'I think I could make myself very content here,' replied Philip. +'That's to say, if one were easy in one's mind.' + +'Ay, ay, my man. That's it everywhere. Why, I don't think that I +could enjoy myself--not even at th' White Hart, where they give you +as good a glass of ale for twopence as anywhere i' th' four +kingdoms--I couldn't, to say, flavour my ale even there, if my old +woman lay a-dying; which is a sign as it's the heart, and not the +ale, as makes the drink.' + +Just then the warden's back-door opened, and out came the warden +himself, dressed in full clerical costume. + +He was going into the neighbouring city, but he stopped to speak to +Philip, the wounded soldier; and all the more readily because his +old faded uniform told the warden's experienced eye that he had +belonged to the Marines. + +'I hope you enjoy the victual provided for you by the founder of St +Sepulchre,' said he, kindly. 'You look but poorly, my good fellow, +and as if a slice of good cold meat would help your bread down.' + +'Thank you, sir!' said Philip. 'I'm not hungry, only weary, and glad +of a draught of beer.' + +'You've been in the Marines, I see. Where have you been serving?' + +'I was at the siege of Acre, last May, sir.' + +'At Acre! Were you, indeed? Then perhaps you know my boy Harry? He +was in the----th.' + +'It was my company,' said Philip, warming up a little. Looking back +upon his soldier's life, it seemed to him to have many charms, +because it was so full of small daily interests. + +'Then, did you know my son, Lieutenant Pennington?' + +'It was he that gave me this cloak, sir, when they were sending me +back to England. I had been his servant for a short time before I +was wounded by the explosion on board the _Theseus_, and he said I +should feel the cold of the voyage. He's very kind; and I've heard +say he promises to be a first-rate officer.' + +'You shall have a slice of roast beef, whether you want it or not,' +said the warden, ringing the bell at his own back-door. 'I recognize +the cloak now--the young scamp! How soon he has made it shabby, +though,' he continued, taking up a corner where there was an immense +tear not too well botched up. 'And so you were on board the +_Theseus_ at the time of the explosion? Bring some cold meat here +for the good man--or stay! Come in with me, and then you can tell +Mrs. Pennington and the young ladies all you know about Harry,--and +the siege,--and the explosion.' + +So Philip was ushered into the warden's house and made to eat roast +beef almost against his will; and he was questioned and +cross-questioned by three eager ladies, all at the same time, as it +seemed to him. He had given all possible details on the subjects +about which they were curious; and was beginning to consider how he +could best make his retreat, when the younger Miss Pennington went +up to her father--who had all this time stood, with his hat on, +holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his back to the fire. He +bent his ear down a very little to hear some whispered suggestion of +his daughter's, nodded his head, and then went on questioning +Philip, with kindly inquisitiveness and patronage, as the rich do +question the poor. + +'And where are you going to now?' + +Philip did not answer directly. He wondered in his own mind where he +was going. At length he said, + +'Northwards, I believe. But perhaps I shall never reach there.' + +'Haven't you friends? Aren't you going to them?' + +There was again a pause; a cloud came over Philip's countenance. He +said, + +'No! I'm not going to my friends. I don't know that I've got any +left.' + +They interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that he had +either lost his friends by death, or offended them by enlisting. + +The warden went on, + +'I ask, because we've got a cottage vacant in the mead. Old Dobson, +who was with General Wolfe at the taking of Quebec, died a fortnight +ago. With such injuries as yours, I fear you'll never be able to +work again. But we require strict testimonials as to character,' he +added, with as penetrating a look as he could summon up at Philip. + +Philip looked unmoved, either by the offer of the cottage, or the +illusion to the possibility of his character not being satisfactory. +He was grateful enough in reality, but too heavy at heart to care +very much what became of him. + +The warden and his family, who were accustomed to consider a +settlement at St Sepulchre's as the sum of all good to a worn-out +soldier, were a little annoyed at Philip's cool way of receiving the +proposition. The warden went on to name the contingent advantages. + +'Besides the cottage, you would have a load of wood for firing on +All Saints', on Christmas, and on Candlemas days--a blue gown and +suit of clothes to match every Michaelmas, and a shilling a day to +keep yourself in all other things. Your dinner you would have with +the other men, in hall.' + +'The warden himself goes into hall every day, and sees that +everything is comfortable, and says grace,' added the warden's lady. + +'I know I seem stupid,' said Philip, almost humbly, 'not to be more +grateful, for it's far beyond what I iver expected or thought for +again, and it's a great temptation, for I'm just worn out with +fatigue. Several times I've thought I must lie down under a hedge, +and just die for very weariness. But once I had a wife and a child +up in the north,' he stopped. + +'And are they dead?' asked one of the young ladies in a soft +sympathizing tone. Her eyes met Philip's, full of dumb woe. He tried +to speak; he wanted to explain more fully, yet not to reveal the +truth. + +'Well!' said the warden, thinking he perceived the real state of +things, 'what I propose is this. You shall go into old Dobson's +house at once, as a kind of probationary bedesman. I'll write to +Harry, and get your character from him. Stephen Freeman I think you +said your name was? Before I can receive his reply you'll have been +able to tell how you'd like the kind of life; and at any rate you'll +have the rest you seem to require in the meantime. You see, I take +Harry's having given you that cloak as a kind of character,' added +he, smiling kindly. 'Of course you'll have to conform to rules just +like all the rest,--chapel at eight, dinner at twelve, lights out at +nine; but I'll tell you the remainder of our regulations as we walk +across quad to your new quarters.' + +And thus Philip, almost in spite of himself, became installed in a +bedesman's house at St Sepulchre. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +A FABLE AT FAULT + + +Philip took possession of the two rooms which had belonged to the +dead Sergeant Dobson. They were furnished sufficiently for every +comfort by the trustees of the hospital. Some little fragments of +ornament, some small articles picked up in distant countries, a few +tattered books, remained in the rooms as legacies from their former +occupant. + +At first the repose of the life and the place was inexpressibly +grateful to Philip. He had always shrunk from encountering +strangers, and displaying his blackened and scarred countenance to +them, even where such disfigurement was most regarded as a mark of +honour. In St Sepulchre's he met none but the same set day after +day, and when he had once told the tale of how it happened and +submitted to their gaze, it was over for ever, if he so minded. The +slight employment his garden gave him--there was a kitchen-garden +behind each house, as well as the flower-plot in front--and the +daily arrangement of his parlour and chamber were, at the beginning +of his time of occupation, as much bodily labour as he could manage. +There was something stately and utterly removed from all Philip's +previous existence in the forms observed at every day's dinner, when +the twelve bedesmen met in the large quaint hall, and the warden +came in his college-cap and gown to say the long Latin grace which +wound up with something very like a prayer for the soul of Sir Simon +Bray. It took some time to get a reply to ship letters in those +times when no one could exactly say where the fleet might be found. + +And before Dr Pennington had received the excellent character of +Stephen Freeman, which his son gladly sent in answer to his father's +inquiries, Philip had become restless and uneasy in the midst of all +this peace and comfort. + +Sitting alone over his fire in the long winter evenings, the scenes +of his past life rose before him; his childhood; his aunt Robson's +care of him; his first going to Foster's shop in Monkshaven; +Haytersbank Farm, and the spelling lessons in the bright warm +kitchen there; Kinraid's appearance; the miserable night of the +Corneys' party; the farewell he had witnessed on Monkshaven sands; +the press-gang, and all the long consequences of that act of +concealment; poor Daniel Robson's trial and execution; his own +marriage; his child's birth; and then he came to that last day at +Monkshaven: and he went over and over again the torturing details, +the looks of contempt and anger, the words of loathing indignation, +till he almost brought himself, out of his extreme sympathy with +Sylvia, to believe that he was indeed the wretch she had considered +him to be. + +He forgot his own excuses for having acted as he had done; though +these excuses had at one time seemed to him to wear the garb of +reasons. After long thought and bitter memory came some wonder. What +was Sylvia doing now? Where was she? What was his child like--his +child as well as hers? And then he remembered the poor footsore wife +and the little girl she carried in her arms, that was just the age +of Bella; he wished he had noticed that child more, that a clear +vision of it might rise up when he wanted to picture Bella. + +One night he had gone round this mill-wheel circle of ideas till he +was weary to the very marrow of his bones. To shake off the +monotonous impression he rose to look for a book amongst the old +tattered volumes, hoping that he might find something that would +sufficiently lay hold of him to change the current of his thoughts. +There was an old volume of _Peregrine Pickle_; a book of sermons; +half an army list of 1774, and the _Seven Champions of Christendom_. +Philip took up this last, which he had never seen before. In it he +read how Sir Guy, Earl of Warwick, went to fight the Paynim in his +own country, and was away for seven long years; and when he came +back his own wife Phillis, the countess in her castle, did not know +the poor travel-worn hermit, who came daily to seek his dole of +bread at her hands along with many beggars and much poor. But at +last, when he lay a-dying in his cave in the rock, he sent for her +by a secret sign known but to them twain. And she came with great +speed, for she knew it was her lord who had sent for her; and they +had many sweet and holy words together before he gave up the ghost, +his head lying on her bosom. + +The old story known to most people from their childhood was all new +and fresh to Philip. He did not quite believe in the truth of it, +because the fictitious nature of the histories of some of the other +Champions of Christendom was too patent. But he could not help +thinking that this one might be true; and that Guy and Phillis might +have been as real flesh and blood, long, long ago, as he and Sylvia +had even been. The old room, the quiet moonlit quadrangle into which +the cross-barred casement looked, the quaint aspect of everything +that he had seen for weeks and weeks; all this predisposed Philip to +dwell upon the story he had just been reading as a faithful legend +of two lovers whose bones were long since dust. He thought that if +he could thus see Sylvia, himself unknown, unseen--could live at her +gates, so to speak, and gaze upon her and his child--some day too, +when he lay a-dying, he might send for her, and in soft words of +mutual forgiveness breathe his life away in her arms. Or perhaps--and +so he lost himself, and from thinking, passed on to dreaming. +All night long Guy and Phillis, Sylvia and his child, passed in and +out of his visions; it was impossible to make the fragments of his +dreams cohere; but the impression made upon him by them was not the +less strong for this. He felt as if he were called to Monkshaven, +wanted at Monkshaven, and to Monkshaven he resolved to go; although +when his reason overtook his feeling, he knew perfectly how unwise +it was to leave a home of peace and tranquillity and surrounding +friendliness, to go to a place where nothing but want and +wretchedness awaited him unless he made himself known; and if he +did, a deeper want, a more woeful wretchedness, would in all +probability be his portion. + +In the small oblong of looking-glass hung against the wall, Philip +caught the reflection of his own face, and laughed scornfully at the +sight. The thin hair lay upon his temples in the flakes that betoken +long ill-health; his eyes were the same as ever, and they had always +been considered the best feature in his face; but they were sunk in +their orbits, and looked hollow and gloomy. As for the lower part of +his face, blackened, contracted, drawn away from his teeth, the +outline entirely changed by the breakage of his jaw-bone, he was +indeed a fool if he thought himself fit to go forth to win back that +love which Sylvia had forsworn. As a hermit and a beggar, he must +return to Monkshaven, and fall perforce into the same position which +Guy of Warwick had only assumed. But still he should see his +Phillis, and might feast his sad hopeless eyes from time to time +with the sight of his child. His small pension of sixpence a day +would keep him from absolute want of necessaries. + +So that very day he went to the warden and told him he thought of +giving up his share in the bequest of Sir Simon Bray. Such a +relinquishment had never occurred before in all the warden's +experience; and he was very much inclined to be offended. + +'I must say that for a man not to be satisfied as a bedesman of St +Sepulchre's argues a very wrong state of mind, and a very ungrateful +heart.' + +'I'm sure, sir, it's not from any ingratitude, for I can hardly feel +thankful to you and to Sir Simon, and to madam, and the young +ladies, and all my comrades in the hospital, and I niver expect to +be either so comfortable or so peaceful again, but----' + +'But? What can you have to say against the place, then? Not but what +there are always plenty of applicants for every vacancy; only I +thought I was doing a kindness to a man out of Harry's company. And +you'll not see Harry either; he's got his leave in March!' + +'I'm very sorry. I should like to have seen the lieutenant again. +But I cannot rest any longer so far away from--people I once knew.' + +'Ten to one they're dead, or removed, or something or other by this +time; and it'll serve you right if they are. Mind! no one can be +chosen twice to be a bedesman of St Sepulchre's.' + +The warden turned away; and Philip, uneasy at staying, disheartened +at leaving, went to make his few preparations for setting out once +more on his journey northwards. He had to give notice of his change +of residence to the local distributor of pensions; and one or two +farewells had to be taken, with more than usual sadness at the +necessity; for Philip, under his name of Stephen Freeman, had +attached some of the older bedesmen a good deal to him, from his +unselfishness, his willingness to read to them, and to render them +many little services, and, perhaps, as much as anything, by his +habitual silence, which made him a convenient recipient of all their +garrulousness. So before the time for his departure came, he had the +opportunity of one more interview with the warden, of a more +friendly character than that in which he gave up his bedesmanship. +And so far it was well; and Philip turned his back upon St +Sepulchre's with his sore heart partly healed by his four months' +residence there. + +He was stronger, too, in body, more capable of the day-after-day +walks that were required of him. He had saved some money from his +allowance as bedesman and from his pension, and might occasionally +have taken an outside place on a coach, had it not been that he +shrank from the first look of every stranger upon his disfigured +face. Yet the gentle, wistful eyes, and the white and faultless +teeth always did away with the first impression as soon as people +became a little acquainted with his appearance. + +It was February when Philip left St Sepulchre's. It was the first +week in April when he began to recognize the familiar objects +between York and Monkshaven. And now he began to hang back, and to +question the wisdom of what he had done--just as the warden had +prophesied that he would. The last night of his two hundred mile +walk he slept at the little inn at which he had been enlisted nearly +two years before. It was by no intention of his that he rested at +that identical place. Night was drawing on; and, in making, as he +thought, a short cut, he had missed his way, and was fain to seek +shelter where he might find it. But it brought him very straight +face to face with his life at that time, and ever since. His mad, +wild hopes--half the result of intoxication, as he now knew--all +dead and gone; the career then freshly opening shut up against him +now; his youthful strength and health changed into premature +infirmity, and the home and the love that should have opened wide +its doors to console him for all, why in two years Death might have +been busy, and taken away from him his last feeble chance of the +faint happiness of seeing his beloved without being seen or known of +her. All that night and all the next day, the fear of Sylvia's +possible death overclouded his heart. It was strange that he had +hardly ever thought of this before; so strange, that now, when the +terror came, it took possession of him, and he could almost have +sworn that she must be lying dead in Monkshaven churchyard. Or was +it little Bella, that blooming, lovely babe, whom he was never to +see again? There was the tolling of mournful bells in the distant +air to his disturbed fancy, and the cry of the happy birds, the +plaintive bleating of the new-dropped lambs, were all omens of evil +import to him. + +As well as he could, he found his way back to Monkshaven, over the +wild heights and moors he had crossed on that black day of misery; +why he should have chosen that path he could not tell--it was as if +he were led, and had no free will of his own. + +The soft clear evening was drawing on, and his heart beat thick, and +then stopped, only to start again with fresh violence. There he was, +at the top of the long, steep lane that was in some parts a literal +staircase leading down from the hill-top into the High Street, +through the very entry up which he had passed when he shrank away +from his former and his then present life. There he stood, looking +down once more at the numerous irregular roofs, the many stacks of +chimneys below him, seeking out that which had once been his own +dwelling--who dwelt there now? + +The yellower gleams grew narrower; the evening shadows broader, and +Philip crept down the lane a weary, woeful man. At every gap in the +close-packed buildings he heard the merry music of a band, the +cheerful sound of excited voices. Still he descended slowly, +scarcely wondering what it could be, for it was not associated in +his mind with the one pervading thought of Sylvia. + +When he came to the angle of junction between the lane and the High +Street, he seemed plunged all at once into the very centre of the +bustle, and he drew himself up into a corner of deep shadow, from +whence he could look out upon the street. + +A circus was making its grand entry into Monkshaven, with all the +pomp of colour and of noise that it could muster. Trumpeters in +parti-coloured clothes rode first, blaring out triumphant discord. +Next came a gold-and-scarlet chariot drawn by six piebald horses, +and the windings of this team through the tortuous narrow street +were pretty enough to look upon. In the chariot sate kings and +queens, heroes and heroines, or what were meant for such; all the +little boys and girls running alongside of the chariot envied them; +but they themselves were very much tired, and shivering with cold in +their heroic pomp of classic clothing. All this Philip might have +seen; did see, in fact; but heeded not one jot. Almost opposite to +him, not ten yards apart, standing on the raised step at the +well-known shop door, was Sylvia, holding a child, a merry dancing +child, up in her arms to see the show. She too, Sylvia, was laughing +for pleasure, and for sympathy with pleasure. She held the little +Bella aloft that the child might see the gaudy procession the better +and the longer, looking at it herself with red lips apart and white +teeth glancing through; then she turned to speak to some one behind +her--Coulson, as Philip saw the moment afterwards; his answer made +her laugh once again. Philip saw it all; her bonny careless looks, +her pretty matronly form, her evident ease of mind and prosperous +outward circumstances. The years that he had spent in gloomy sorrow, +amongst wild scenes, on land or by sea, his life in frequent peril +of a bloody end, had gone by with her like sunny days; all the more +sunny because he was not there. So bitterly thought the poor +disabled marine, as, weary and despairing, he stood in the cold +shadow and looked upon the home that should have been his haven, the +wife that should have welcomed him, the child that should have been +his comfort. He had banished himself from his home; his wife had +forsworn him; his child was blossoming into intelligence unwitting +of any father. Wife, and child, and home, were all doing well +without him; what madness had tempted him thither? an hour ago, like +a fanciful fool, he had thought she might be dead--dead with sad +penitence for her cruel words at her heart--with mournful wonder at +the unaccounted-for absence of her child's father preying on her +spirits, and in some measure causing the death he had apprehended. +But to look at her there where she stood, it did not seem as if she +had had an hour's painful thought in all her blooming life. + +Ay! go in to the warm hearth, mother and child, now the gay +cavalcade has gone out of sight, and the chill of night has +succeeded to the sun's setting. Husband and father, steal out into +the cold dark street, and seek some poor cheap lodging where you may +rest your weary bones, and cheat your more weary heart into +forgetfulness in sleep. The pretty story of the Countess Phillis, +who mourned for her husband's absence so long, is a fable of old +times; or rather say Earl Guy never wedded his wife, knowing that +one she loved better than him was alive all the time she had +believed him to be dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +THE UNKNOWN + + +A few days before that on which Philip arrived at Monkshaven, Kester +had come to pay Sylvia a visit. As the earliest friend she had, and +also as one who knew the real secrets of her life, Sylvia always +gave him the warm welcome, the cordial words, and the sweet looks in +which the old man delighted. He had a sort of delicacy of his own +which kept him from going to see her too often, even when he was +stationary at Monkshaven; but he looked forward to the times when he +allowed himself this pleasure as a child at school looks forward to +its holidays. The time of his service at Haytersbank had, on the +whole, been the happiest in all his long monotonous years of daily +labour. Sylvia's father had always treated him with the rough +kindness of fellowship; Sylvia's mother had never stinted him in his +meat or grudged him his share of the best that was going; and once, +when he was ill for a few days in the loft above the cow-house, she +had made him possets, and nursed him with the same tenderness which +he remembered his mother showing to him when he was a little child, +but which he had never experienced since then. He had known Sylvia +herself, as bud, and sweet promise of blossom; and just as she was +opening into the full-blown rose, and, if she had been happy and +prosperous, might have passed out of the narrow circle of Kester's +interests, one sorrow after another came down upon her pretty +innocent head, and Kester's period of service to Daniel Robson, her +father, was tragically cut short. All this made Sylvia the great +centre of the faithful herdsman's affection; and Bella, who reminded +him of what Sylvia was when first Kester knew her, only occupied the +second place in his heart, although to the child he was much more +demonstrative of his regard than to the mother. + +He had dressed himself in his Sunday best, and although it was only +Thursday, had forestalled his Saturday's shaving; he had provided +himself with a paper of humbugs for the child--'humbugs' being the +north-country term for certain lumps of toffy, well-flavoured with +peppermint--and now he sat in the accustomed chair, as near to the +door as might be, in Sylvia's presence, coaxing the little one, who +was not quite sure of his identity, to come to him, by opening the +paper parcel, and letting its sweet contents be seen. + +'She's like thee--and yet she favours her feyther,' said he; and the +moment he had uttered the incautious words he looked up to see how +Sylvia had taken the unpremeditated, unusual reference to her +husband. His stealthy glance did not meet her eye; but though he +thought she had coloured a little, she did not seem offended as he +had feared. It was true that Bella had her father's grave, +thoughtful, dark eyes, instead of her mother's gray ones, out of +which the childlike expression of wonder would never entirely pass +away. And as Bella slowly and half distrustfully made her way +towards the temptation offered her, she looked at Kester with just +her father's look. + +Sylvia said nothing in direct reply; Kester almost thought she could +not have heard him. But, by-and-by, she said,-- + +'Yo'll have heared how Kinraid--who's a captain now, and a grand +officer--has gone and got married.' + +'Nay!' said Kester, in genuine surprise. 'He niver has, for sure!' + +'Ay, but he has,' said Sylvia. 'And I'm sure I dunnot see why he +shouldn't.' + +'Well, well!' said Kester, not looking up at her, for he caught the +inflections in the tones of her voice. 'He were a fine stirrin' +chap, yon; an' he were allays for doin' summut; an' when he fund as +he couldn't ha' one thing as he'd set his mind on, a reckon he +thought he mun put up wi' another.' + +'It 'ud be no "putting up,"' said Sylvia. 'She were staying at Bessy +Dawson's, and she come here to see me--she's as pretty a young lady +as yo'd see on a summer's day; and a real lady, too, wi' a fortune. +She didn't speak two words wi'out bringing in her husband's +name,--"the captain", as she called him.' + +'An' she come to see thee?' said Kester, cocking his eye at Sylvia +with the old shrewd look. 'That were summut queer, weren't it?' + +Sylvia reddened a good deal. + +'He's too fause to have spoken to her on me, in t' old way,--as he +used for t' speak to me. I were nought to her but Philip's wife.' + +'An' what t' dickins had she to do wi' Philip?' asked Kester, in +intense surprise; and so absorbed in curiosity that he let the +humbugs all fall out of the paper upon the floor, and the little +Bella sat down, plump, in the midst of treasures as great as those +fabled to exist on Tom Tiddler's ground. + +Sylvia was again silent; but Kester, knowing her well, was sure that +she was struggling to speak, and bided his time without repeating +his question. + +'She said--and I think her tale were true, though I cannot get to t' +rights on it, think on it as I will--as Philip saved her husband's +life somewheere nearabouts to Jerusalem. She would have it that t' +captain--for I think I'll niver ca' him Kinraid again--was in a +great battle, and were near upon being shot by t' French, when +Philip--our Philip--come up and went right into t' fire o' t' guns, +and saved her husband's life. And she spoke as if both she and t' +captain were more beholden to Philip than words could tell. And she +come to see me, to try and get news on him. + +'It's a queer kind o' story,' said Kester, meditatively. 'A should +ha' thought as Philip were more likely to ha' gi'en him a shove into +t' thick on it, than t' help him out o' t' scrape.' + +'Nay!' said Sylvia, suddenly looking straight at Kester; 'yo're out +theere. Philip had a deal o' good in him. And I dunnot think as he'd +ha' gone and married another woman so soon, if he'd been i' +Kinraid's place.' + +'An' yo've niver heared on Philip sin' he left?' asked Kester, after +a while. + +'Niver; nought but what she told me. And she said that t' captain +made inquiry for him right and left, as soon after that happened as +might be, and could hear niver a word about him. No one had seen +him, or knowed his name.' + +'Yo' niver heared of his goin' for t' be a soldier?' persevered +Kester. + +'Niver. I've told yo' once. It were unlike Philip to think o' such a +thing.' + +'But thou mun ha' been thinkin' on him at times i' a' these years. +Bad as he'd behaved hissel', he were t' feyther o' thy little un. +What did ta think he had been agait on when he left here?' + +'I didn't know. I were noane so keen a-thinking on him at first. I +tried to put him out o' my thoughts a'together, for it made me like +mad to think how he'd stood between me and--that other. But I'd +begun to wonder and to wonder about him, and to think I should like +to hear as he were doing well. I reckon I thought he were i' London, +wheere he'd been that time afore, yo' know, and had allays spoke as +if he'd enjoyed hissel' tolerable; and then Molly Brunton told me on +t' other one's marriage; and, somehow, it gave me a shake in my +heart, and I began for to wish I hadn't said all them words i' my +passion; and then that fine young lady come wi' her story--and I've +thought a deal on it since,--and my mind has come out clear. +Philip's dead, and it were his spirit as come to t' other's help in +his time o' need. I've heard feyther say as spirits cannot rest i' +their graves for trying to undo t' wrongs they've done i' their +bodies.' + +'Them's my conclusions,' said Kester, solemnly. 'A was fain for to +hear what were yo'r judgments first; but them's the conclusions I +comed to as soon as I heard t' tale.' + +'Let alone that one thing,' said Sylvia, 'he were a kind, good man.' + +'It were a big deal on a "one thing", though,' said Kester. 'It just +spoilt yo'r life, my poor lass; an' might ha' gone near to spoilin' +Charley Kinraid's too.' + +'Men takes a deal more nor women to spoil their lives,' said Sylvia, +bitterly. + +'Not a' mak' o' men. I reckon, lass, Philip's life were pretty well +on for bein' spoilt at after he left here; and it were, mebbe, a +good thing he got rid on it so soon.' + +'I wish I'd just had a few kind words wi' him, I do,' said Sylvia, +almost on the point of crying. + +'Come, lass, it's as ill moanin' after what's past as it 'ud be for +me t' fill my eyes wi' weepin' after t' humbugs as this little wench +o' thine has grubbed up whilst we'n been talkin'. Why, there's not +one on 'em left!' + +'She's a sad spoilt little puss!' said Sylvia, holding out her arms +to the child, who ran into them, and began patting her mother's +cheeks, and pulling at the soft brown curls tucked away beneath the +matronly cap. 'Mammy spoils her, and Hester spoils her----' + +'Granny Rose doesn't spoil me,' said the child, with quick, +intelligent discrimination, interrupting her mother's list. + +'No; but Jeremiah Foster does above a bit. He'll come in fro' t' +Bank, Kester, and ask for her, a'most ivery day. And he'll bring her +things in his pocket; and she's so fause, she allays goes straight +to peep in, and then he shifts t' apple or t' toy into another. Eh! +but she's a little fause one,'--half devouring the child with her +kisses. 'And he comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goes +as slow as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace wi' Bella's +steps. I often run upstairs and watch 'em out o' t' window; he +doesn't care to have me with 'em, he's so fain t' have t' child all +to hisself.' + +'She's a bonny un, for sure,' said Kester; 'but not so pretty as +thou was, Sylvie. A've niver tell'd thee what a come for tho', and +it's about time for me t' be goin'. A'm off to t' Cheviots to-morrow +morn t' fetch home some sheep as Jonas Blundell has purchased. It'll +be a job o' better nor two months a reckon.' + +'It'll be a nice time o' year,' said Sylvia, a little surprised at +Kester's evident discouragement at the prospect of the journey or +absence; he had often been away from Monkshaven for a longer time +without seeming to care so much about it. + +'Well, yo' see it's a bit hard upon me for t' leave my sister--she +as is t' widow-woman, wheere a put up when a'm at home. Things is +main an' dear; four-pound loaves is at sixteenpence; an' there's a +deal o' talk on a famine i' t' land; an' whaten a paid for my +victual an' t' bed i' t' lean-to helped t' oud woman a bit,--an' +she's sadly down i' t' mouth, for she cannot hear on a lodger for t' +tak' my place, for a' she's moved o'er to t' other side o' t' bridge +for t' be nearer t' new buildings, an' t' grand new walk they're +makin' round t' cliffs, thinkin' she'd be likelier t' pick up a +labourer as would be glad on a bed near his work. A'd ha' liked to +ha' set her agait wi' a 'sponsible lodger afore a'd ha' left, for +she's just so soft-hearted, any scamp may put upon her if he nobbut +gets houd on her blind side.' + +'Can I help her?' said Sylvia, in her eager way. 'I should be so +glad; and I've a deal of money by me---' + +'Nay, my lass,' said Kester, 'thou munnot go off so fast; it were +just what I were feared on i' tellin' thee. I've left her a bit o' +money, and I'll mak' shift to send her more; it's just a kind word, +t' keep up her heart when I'm gone, as I want. If thou'd step in and +see her fra' time to time, and cheer her up a bit wi' talkin' to her +on me, I'd tak' it very kind, and I'd go off wi' a lighter heart.' + +'Then I'm sure I'll do it for yo', Kester. I niver justly feel like +mysel' when yo're away, for I'm lonesome enough at times. She and I +will talk a' t' better about yo' for both on us grieving after yo'.' + +So Kester took his leave, his mind set at ease by Sylvia's promise +to go and see his sister pretty often during his absence in the +North. + +But Sylvia's habits were changed since she, as a girl at +Haytersbank, liked to spend half her time in the open air, running +out perpetually without anything on to scatter crumbs to the +poultry, or to take a piece of bread to the old cart-horse, to go up +to the garden for a handful of herbs, or to clamber to the highest +point around to blow the horn which summoned her father and Kester +home to dinner. Living in a town where it was necessary to put on +hat and cloak before going out into the street, and then to walk in +a steady and decorous fashion, she had only cared to escape down to +the freedom of the sea-shore until Philip went away; and after that +time she had learnt so to fear observation as a deserted wife, that +nothing but Bella's health would have been a sufficient motive to +take her out of doors. And, as she had told Kester, the necessity of +giving the little girl a daily walk was very much lightened by the +great love and affection which Jeremiah Foster now bore to the +child. Ever since the day when the baby had come to his knee, +allured by the temptation of his watch, he had apparently considered +her as in some sort belonging to him; and now he had almost come to +think that he had a right to claim her as his companion in his walk +back from the Bank to his early dinner, where a high chair was +always placed ready for the chance of her coming to share his meal. +On these occasions he generally brought her back to the shop-door +when he returned to his afternoon's work at the Bank. Sometimes, +however, he would leave word that she was to be sent for from his +house in the New Town, as his business at the Bank for that day was +ended. Then Sylvia was compelled to put on her things, and fetch +back her darling; and excepting for this errand she seldom went out +at all on week-days. + +About a fortnight after Kester's farewell call, this need for her +visit to Jeremiah Foster's arose; and it seemed to Sylvia that there +could not be a better opportunity of fulfilling her promise and +going to see the widow Dobson, whose cottage was on the other side +of the river, low down on the cliff-side, just at the bend and rush +of the full stream into the open sea. She set off pretty early in +order to go there first. She found the widow with her house-place +tidied up after the midday meal, and busy knitting at the open +door--not looking at her rapid-clicking needles, but gazing at the +rush and recession of the waves before her; yet not seeing them +either,--rather seeing days long past. + +She started into active civility as soon as she recognized Sylvia, +who was to her as a great lady, never having known Sylvia Robson in +her wild childish days. Widow Dobson was always a little scandalized +at her brother Christopher's familiarity with Mrs. Hepburn. + +She dusted a chair which needed no dusting, and placed it for +Sylvia, sitting down herself on a three-legged stool to mark her +sense of the difference in their conditions, for there was another +chair or two in the humble dwelling; and then the two fell into +talk--first about Kester, whom his sister would persist in calling +Christopher, as if his dignity as her elder brother was compromised +by any familiar abbreviation; and by-and-by she opened her heart a +little more. + +'A could wish as a'd learned write-of-hand,' said she; 'for a've +that for to tell Christopher as might set his mind at ease. But yo' +see, if a wrote him a letter he couldn't read it; so a just comfort +mysel' wi' thinkin' nobody need learn writin' unless they'n got +friends as can read. But a reckon he'd ha' been glad to hear as a've +getten a lodger.' Here she nodded her head in the direction of the +door opening out of the house-place into the 'lean-to', which Sylvia +had observed on drawing near the cottage, and the recollection of +the mention of which by Kester had enabled her to identify widow +Dobson's dwelling. 'He's a-bed yonder,' the latter continued, +dropping her voice. 'He's a queer-lookin' tyke, but a don't think as +he's a bad un.' + +'When did he come?' said Sylvia, remembering Kester's account of his +sister's character, and feeling as though it behoved her, as +Kester's confidante on this head, to give cautious and prudent +advice. + +'Eh! a matter of a s'ennight ago. A'm noane good at mindin' time; +he's paid me his rent twice, but then he were keen to pay aforehand. +He'd comed in one night, an' sate him down afore he could speak, he +were so done up; he'd been on tramp this many a day, a reckon. "Can +yo' give me a bed?" says he, panting like, after a bit. "A chap as a +met near here says as yo've a lodging for t' let." "Ay," says a, "a +ha' that; but yo' mun pay me a shilling a week for 't." Then my mind +misgive me, for a thought he hadn't a shilling i' t' world, an' yet +if he hadn't, a should just ha' gi'en him t' bed a' t' same: a'm not +one as can turn a dog out if he comes t' me wearied o' his life. So +he outs wi' a shillin', an' lays it down on t' table, 'bout a word. +"A'll not trouble yo' long," says he. "A'm one as is best out o' t' +world," he says. Then a thought as a'd been a bit hard upon him. An' +says I, "A'm a widow-woman, and one as has getten but few friends:" +for yo' see a were low about our Christopher's goin' away north; "so +a'm forced-like to speak hard to folk; but a've made mysel' some +stirabout for my supper; and if yo'd like t' share an' share about +wi' me, it's but puttin' a sup more watter to 't, and God's blessing +'ll be on 't, just as same as if 't were meal." So he ups wi' his +hand afore his e'en, and says not a word. At last he says, "Missus," +says he, "can God's blessing be shared by a sinner--one o' t' +devil's children?" says he. "For the Scriptur' says he's t' father +o' lies." So a were puzzled-like; an' at length a says, "Thou mun +ask t' parson that; a'm but a poor faint-hearted widow-woman; but +a've allays had God's blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an' a'll +share it wi' thee as far as my will goes." So he raxes his hand +across t' table, an' mutters summat, as he grips mine. A thought it +were Scriptur' as he said, but a'd needed a' my strength just then +for t' lift t' pot off t' fire--it were t' first vittle a'd tasted +sin' morn, for t' famine comes down like stones on t' head o' us +poor folk: an' a' a said were just "Coom along, chap, an' fa' to; +an' God's blessing be on him as eats most." An' sin' that day him +and me's been as thick as thieves, only he's niver telled me nought +of who he is, or wheere he comes fra'. But a think he's one o' them +poor colliers, as has getten brunt i' t' coal-pits; for, t' be sure, +his face is a' black wi' fire-marks; an' o' late days he's ta'en t' +his bed, an' just lies there sighing,--for one can hear him plain as +dayleet thro' t' bit partition wa'.' + +As a proof of this, a sigh--almost a groan--startled the two women +at this very moment. + +'Poor fellow!' said Sylvia, in a soft whisper. 'There's more sore +hearts i' t' world than one reckons for!' But after a while, she +bethought her again of Kester's account of his sister's 'softness'; +and she thought that it behoved her to give some good advice. So she +added, in a sterner, harder tone--'Still, yo' say yo' know nought +about him; and tramps is tramps a' t' world over; and yo're a widow, +and it behoves yo' to be careful. I think I'd just send him off as +soon as he's a bit rested. Yo' say he's plenty o' money?' + +'Nay! A never said that. A know nought about it. He pays me +aforehand; an' he pays me down for whativer a've getten for him; but +that's but little; he's noane up t' his vittle, though a've made him +some broth as good as a could make 'em.' + +'I wouldn't send him away till he was well again, if I were yo; but +I think yo'd be better rid on him,' said Sylvia. 'It would be +different if yo'r brother were in Monkshaven.' As she spoke she rose +to go. + +Widow Dobson held her hand in hers for a minute, then the humble +woman said,-- + +'Yo'll noane be vexed wi' me, missus, if a cannot find i' my heart +t' turn him out till he wants to go hissel'? For a wouldn't like to +vex yo', for Christopher's sake; but a know what it is for t' feel +for friendless folk, an' choose what may come on it, I cannot send +him away.' + +'No!' said Sylvia. 'Why should I be vexed? it's no business o' mine. +Only I should send him away if I was yo'. He might go lodge wheere +there was men-folk, who know t' ways o' tramps, and are up to them.' + +Into the sunshine went Sylvia. In the cold shadow the miserable +tramp lay sighing. She did not know that she had been so near to him +towards whom her heart was softening, day by day. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +FIRST WORDS + + +It was the spring of 1800. Old people yet can tell of the hard +famine of that year. The harvest of the autumn before had failed; +the war and the corn laws had brought the price of corn up to a +famine rate; and much of what came into the market was unsound, and +consequently unfit for food, yet hungry creatures bought it eagerly, +and tried to cheat disease by mixing the damp, sweet, clammy flour +with rice or potato meal. Rich families denied themselves pastry and +all unnecessary and luxurious uses of wheat in any shape; the duty +on hair-powder was increased; and all these palliatives were but as +drops in the ocean of the great want of the people. + +Philip, in spite of himself, recovered and grew stronger; and as he +grew stronger hunger took the place of loathing dislike to food. But +his money was all spent; and what was his poor pension of sixpence a +day in that terrible year of famine? Many a summer's night he walked +for hours and hours round the house which once was his, which might +be his now, with all its homely, blessed comforts, could he but go +and assert his right to it. But to go with authority, and in his +poor, maimed guise assert that right, he had need be other than +Philip Hepburn. So he stood in the old shelter of the steep, crooked +lane opening on to the hill out of the market-place, and watched the +soft fading of the summer's eve into night; the closing of the once +familiar shop; the exit of good, comfortable William Coulson, going +to his own home, his own wife, his comfortable, plentiful supper. +Then Philip--there were no police in those days, and scarcely an old +watchman in that primitive little town--would go round on the shady +sides of streets, and, quickly glancing about him, cross the bridge, +looking on the quiet, rippling stream, the gray shimmer foretelling +the coming dawn over the sea, the black masts and rigging of the +still vessels against the sky; he could see with his wistful, eager +eyes the shape of the windows--the window of the very room in which +his wife and child slept, unheeding of him, the hungry, +broken-hearted outcast. He would go back to his lodging, and softly +lift the latch of the door; still more softly, but never without an +unspoken, grateful prayer, pass by the poor sleeping woman who had +given him a shelter and her share of God's blessing--she who, like +him, knew not the feeling of satisfied hunger; and then he laid him +down on the narrow pallet in the lean-to, and again gave Sylvia +happy lessons in the kitchen at Haytersbank, and the dead were +alive; and Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, had never come to +trouble the hopeful, gentle peace. + +For widow Dobson had never taken Sylvia's advice. The tramp known to +her by the name of Freeman--that in which he received his +pension--lodged with her still, and paid his meagre shilling in +advance, weekly. A shilling was meagre in those hard days of +scarcity. A hungry man might easily eat the produce of a shilling in +a day. + +Widow Dobson pleaded this to Sylvia as an excuse for keeping her +lodger on; to a more calculating head it might have seemed a reason +for sending him away. + +'Yo' see, missus,' said she, apologetically, to Sylvia, one evening, +as the latter called upon the poor widow before going to fetch +little Bella (it was now too hot for the child to cross the bridge +in the full heat of the summer sun, and Jeremiah would take her up +to her supper instead)--'Yo' see, missus, there's not a many as 'ud +take him in for a shillin' when it goes so little way; or if they +did, they'd take it out on him some other way, an' he's not getten +much else, a reckon. He ca's me granny, but a'm vast mista'en if +he's ten year younger nor me; but he's getten a fine appetite of his +own, choose how young he may be; an' a can see as he could eat a +deal more nor he's getten money to buy, an' it's few as can mak' +victual go farther nor me. Eh, missus, but yo' may trust me a'll +send him off when times is better; but just now it would be sendin' +him to his death; for a ha' plenty and to spare, thanks be to God +an' yo'r bonny face.' + +So Sylvia had to be content with the knowledge that the money she +gladly gave to Kester's sister went partly to feed the lodger who +was neither labourer nor neighbour, but only just a tramp, who, she +feared, was preying on the good old woman. Still the cruel famine +cut sharp enough to penetrate all hearts; and Sylvia, an hour after +the conversation recorded above, was much touched, on her return +from Jeremiah Foster's with the little merry, chattering Bella, at +seeing the feeble steps of one, whom she knew by description must be +widow Dobson's lodger, turn up from the newly-cut road which was to +lead to the terrace walk around the North Cliff, a road which led to +no dwelling but widow Dobson's. Tramp, and vagrant, he might be in +the eyes of the law; but, whatever his character, Sylvia could see +him before her in the soft dusk, creeping along, over the bridge, +often stopping to rest and hold by some support, and then going on +again towards the town, to which she and happy little Bella were +wending. + +A thought came over her: she had always fancied that this unknown +man was some fierce vagabond, and had dreaded lest in the lonely bit +of road between widow Dobson's cottage and the peopled highway, he +should fall upon her and rob her if he learnt that she had money +with her; and several times she had gone away without leaving the +little gift she had intended, because she imagined that she had seen +the door of the small chamber in the 'lean-to' open softly while she +was there, as if the occupant (whom widow Dobson spoke of as never +leaving the house before dusk, excepting once a week) were listening +for the chink of the coin in her little leathern purse. Now that she +saw him walking before her with heavy languid steps, this fear gave +place to pity; she remembered her mother's gentle superstition which +had prevented her from ever sending the hungry empty away, for fear +lest she herself should come to need bread. + +'Lassie,' said she to little Bella, who held a cake which Jeremiah's +housekeeper had given her tight in her hand, 'yon poor man theere is +hungry; will Bella give him her cake, and mother will make her +another to-morrow twice as big?' + +For this consideration, and with the feeling of satisfaction which a +good supper not an hour ago gives even to the hungry stomach of a +child of three years old, Bella, after some thought, graciously +assented to the sacrifice. + +Sylvia stopped, the cake in her hand, and turned her back to the +town, and to the slow wayfarer in front. Under the cover of her +shawl she slipped a half-crown deep into the crumb of the cake, and +then restoring it to little Bella, she gave her her directions. + +'Mammy will carry Bella; and when Bella goes past the poor man, she +shall give him the cake over mammy's shoulder. Poor man is so +hungry; and Bella and mammy have plenty to eat, and to spare.' + +The child's heart was touched by the idea of hunger, and her little +arm was outstretched ready for the moment her mother's hurried steps +took her brushing past the startled, trembling Philip. + +'Poor man, eat this; Bella not hungry.' + +They were the first words he had ever heard his child utter. The +echoes of them rang in his ears as he stood endeavouring to hide his +disfigured face by looking over the parapet of the bridge down upon +the stream running away towards the ocean, into which his hot tears +slowly fell, unheeded by the weeper. Then he changed the intention +with which he had set out upon his nightly walk, and turned back to +his lodging. + +Of course the case was different with Sylvia; she would have +forgotten the whole affair very speedily, if it had not been for +little Bella's frequent recurrence to the story of the hungry man, +which had touched her small sympathies with the sense of an +intelligible misfortune. She liked to act the dropping of the bun +into the poor man's hand as she went past him, and would take up any +article near her in order to illustrate the gesture she had used. +One day she got hold of Hester's watch for this purpose, as being of +the same round shape as the cake; and though Hester, for whose +benefit the child was repeating the story in her broken language for +the third or fourth time, tried to catch the watch as it was +intended that she should (she being the representative of the +'hungry man' for the time being), it went to the ground with a smash +that frightened the little girl, and she began to cry at the +mischief she had done. + +'Don't cry, Bella,' said Hester. 'Niver play with watches again. I +didn't see thee at mine, or I'd ha' stopped thee in time. But I'll +take it to old Darley's on th' quay-side, and maybe he'll soon set +it to rights again. Only Bella must niver play with watches again.' + +'Niver no more!' promised the little sobbing child. And that evening +Hester took her watch down to old Darley's. + +This William Darley was the brother of the gardener at the rectory; +the uncle to the sailor who had been shot by the press-gang years +before, and to his bed-ridden sister. He was a clever mechanician, +and his skill as a repairer of watches and chronometers was great +among the sailors, with whom he did a very irregular sort of +traffic, conducted, often without much use of money, but rather on +the principle of barter, they bringing him foreign coins and odd +curiosities picked up on their travels in exchange for his services +to their nautical instruments or their watches. If he had ever had +capital to extend his business, he might have been a rich man; but +it is to be doubted whether he would have been as happy as he was +now in his queer little habitation of two rooms, the front one being +both shop and workshop, the other serving the double purpose of +bedroom and museum. + +The skill of this odd-tempered, shabby old man was sometimes sought +by the jeweller who kept the more ostentatious shop in the High +Street; but before Darley would undertake any 'tickle' piece of +delicate workmanship for the other, he sneered at his ignorance, and +taunted and abused him well. Yet he had soft places in his heart, +and Hester Rose had found her way to one by her patient, enduring +kindness to his bed-ridden niece. He never snarled at her as he did +at too many; and on the few occasions when she had asked him to do +anything for her, he had seemed as if she were conferring the favour +on him, not he on her, and only made the smallest possible charge. + +She found him now sitting where he could catch the most light for +his work, spectacles on nose, and microscope in hand. + +He took her watch, and examined it carefully without a word in reply +to her. Then he began to open it and take it to pieces, in order to +ascertain the nature of the mischief. + +Suddenly he heard her catch her breath with a checked sound of +surprise. He looked at her from above his spectacles; she was +holding a watch in her hand which she had just taken up off the +counter. + +'What's amiss wi' thee now?' said Darley. 'Hast ta niver seen a +watch o' that mak' afore? or is it them letters on t' back, as is so +wonderful?' + +Yes, it was those letters--that interlaced, old-fashioned cipher. +That Z. H. that she knew of old stood for Zachary Hepburn, Philip's +father. She knew how Philip valued this watch. She remembered having +seen it in his hands the very day before his disappearance, when he +was looking at the time in his annoyance at Sylvia's detention in +her walk with baby. Hester had no doubt that he had taken this watch +as a matter of course away with him. She felt sure that he would not +part with this relic of his dead father on any slight necessity. +Where, then, was Philip?--by what chance of life or death had this, +his valued property, found its way once more to Monkshaven? + +'Where did yo' get this?' she asked, in as quiet a manner as she +could assume, sick with eagerness as she was. + +To no one else would Darley have answered such a question. He made a +mystery of most of his dealings; not that he had anything to +conceal, but simply because he delighted in concealment. He took it +out of her hands, looked at the number marked inside, and the +maker's name--'Natteau Gent, York'--and then replied,-- + +'A man brought it me yesterday, at nightfall, for t' sell it. It's a +matter o' forty years old. Natteau Gent has been dead and in his +grave pretty nigh as long as that. But he did his work well when he +were alive; and so I gave him as brought it for t' sell about as +much as it were worth, i' good coin. A tried him first i' t' +bartering line, but he wouldn't bite; like enough he wanted +food,--many a one does now-a-days.' + +'Who was he?' gasped Hester. + +'Bless t' woman! how should I know?' + +'What was he like?--how old?--tell me.' + +'My lass, a've summut else to do wi' my eyes than go peering into +men's faces i' t' dusk light.' + +'But yo' must have had light for t' judge about the watch.' + +'Eh! how sharp we are! A'd a candle close to my nose. But a didn't +tak' it up for to gaze int' his face. That wouldn't be manners, to +my thinking.' + +Hester was silent. Then Darley's heart relented. + +'If yo're so set upo' knowing who t' fellow was, a could, mebbe, put +yo' on his tracks.' + +'How?' said Hester, eagerly. 'I do want to know. I want to know very +much, and for a good reason.' + +'Well, then, a'll tell yo'. He's a queer tyke, that one is. A'll be +bound he were sore pressed for t' brass; yet he out's wi' a good +half-crown, all wrapped up i' paper, and he axes me t' make a hole +in it. Says I, "It's marring good king's coin, at after a've made a +hole in't, it'll never pass current again." So he mumbles, and +mumbles, but for a' that it must needs be done; and he's left it +here, and is t' call for 't to-morrow at e'en.' + +'Oh, William Darley!' said Hester, clasping her hands tight +together. 'Find out who he is, where he is--anything--everything +about him--and I will so bless yo'.' + +Darley looked at her sharply, but with some signs of sympathy on his +grave face. 'My woman,' he said 'a could ha' wished as you'd niver +seen t' watch. It's poor, thankless work thinking too much on one o' +God's creatures. But a'll do thy bidding,' he continued, in a +lighter and different tone. 'A'm a 'cute old badger when need be. +Come for thy watch in a couple o' days, and a'll tell yo' all as +a've learnt.' + +So Hester went away, her heart beating with the promise of knowing +something about Philip,--how much, how little, in these first +moments, she dared not say even to herself. Some sailor newly landed +from distant seas might have become possessed of Philip's watch in +far-off latitudes; in which case, Philip would be dead. That might +be. She tried to think that this was the most probable way of +accounting for the watch. She could be certain as to the positive +identity of the watch--being in William Darley's possession. Again, +it might be that Philip himself was near at hand--was here in this +very place--starving, as too many were, for insufficiency of means +to buy the high-priced food. And then her heart burnt within her as +she thought of the succulent, comfortable meals which Sylvia +provided every day--nay, three times a day--for the household in the +market-place, at the head of which Philip ought to have been; but +his place knew him not. For Sylvia had inherited her mother's talent +for housekeeping, and on her, in Alice's decrepitude and Hester's +other occupations in the shop, devolved the cares of due provision +for the somewhat heterogeneous family. + +And Sylvia! Hester groaned in heart over the remembrance of Sylvia's +words, 'I can niver forgive him the wrong he did to me,' that night +when Hester had come, and clung to her, making the sad, shameful +confession of her unreturned love. + +What could ever bring these two together again? Could Hester +herself--ignorant of the strange mystery of Sylvia's heart, as those +who are guided solely by obedience to principle must ever be of the +clue to the actions of those who are led by the passionate ebb and +flow of impulse? Could Hester herself? Oh! how should she speak, how +should she act, if Philip were near--if Philip were sad and in +miserable estate? Her own misery at this contemplation of the case +was too great to bear; and she sought her usual refuge in the +thought of some text, some promise of Scripture, which should +strengthen her faith. + +'With God all things are possible,' said she, repeating the words as +though to lull her anxiety to rest. + +Yes; with God all things are possible. But ofttimes He does his work +with awful instruments. There is a peacemaker whose name is Death. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +SAVED AND LOST + + +Hester went out on the evening of the day after that on which the +unknown owner of the half-crown had appointed to call for it again +at William Darley's. She had schooled herself to believe that time +and patience would serve her best. Her plan was to obtain all the +knowledge about Philip that she could in the first instance; and +then, if circumstances allowed it, as in all probability they would, +to let drop by drop of healing, peacemaking words and thoughts fall +on Sylvia's obdurate, unforgiving heart. So Hester put on her +things, and went out down towards the old quay-side on that evening +after the shop was closed. + +Poor little Sylvia! She was unforgiving, but not obdurate to the full +extent of what Hester believed. Many a time since Philip went away +had she unconsciously missed his protecting love; when folks spoke +shortly to her, when Alice scolded her as one of the non-elect, when +Hester's gentle gravity had something of severity in it; when her +own heart failed her as to whether her mother would have judged that +she had done well, could that mother have known all, as possibly she +did by this time. Philip had never spoken otherwise than tenderly to +her during the eighteen months of their married life, except on the +two occasions before recorded: once when she referred to her dream +of Kinraid's possible return, and once again on the evening of the +day before her discovery of his concealment of the secret of +Kinraid's involuntary disappearance. + +After she had learnt that Kinraid was married, her heart had still +more strongly turned to Philip; she thought that he had judged +rightly in what he had given as the excuse for his double dealing; +she was even more indignant at Kinraid's fickleness than she had any +reason to be; and she began to learn the value of such enduring love +as Philip's had been--lasting ever since the days when she first +began to fancy what a man's love for a woman should be, when she had +first shrunk from the tone of tenderness he put into his especial +term for her, a girl of twelve--'Little lassie,' as he was wont to +call her. + +But across all this relenting came the shadow of her vow--like the +chill of a great cloud passing over a sunny plain. How should she +decide? what would be her duty, if he came again, and once more +called her 'wife'? She shrank from such a possibility with all the +weakness and superstition of her nature; and this it was which made +her strengthen herself with the re-utterance of unforgiving words; +and shun all recurrence to the subject on the rare occasion when +Hester had tried to bring it back, with a hope of softening the +heart which to her appeared altogether hardened on this one point. + +Now, on this bright summer evening, while Hester had gone down to +the quay-side, Sylvia stood with her out-of-door things on in the +parlour, rather impatiently watching the sky, full of hurrying +clouds, and flushing with the warm tints of the approaching sunset. +She could not leave Alice: the old woman had grown so infirm that +she was never left by her daughter and Sylvia at the same time; yet +Sylvia had to fetch her little girl from the New Town, where she had +been to her supper at Jeremiah Foster's. Hester had said that she +should not be away more than a quarter of an hour; and Hester was +generally so punctual that any failure of hers, in this respect, +appeared almost in the light of an injury on those who had learnt to +rely upon her. Sylvia wanted to go and see widow Dobson, and learn +when Kester might be expected home. His two months were long past; +and Sylvia had heard through the Fosters of some suitable and +profitable employment for him, of which she thought he would be glad +to know as soon as possible. It was now some time since she had been +able to get so far as across the bridge; and, for aught she knew, +Kester might already be come back from his expedition to the +Cheviots. Kester was come back. Scarce five minutes had elapsed +after these thoughts had passed through her mind before his hasty +hand lifted the latch of the kitchen-door, his hurried steps brought +him face to face with her. The smile of greeting was arrested on her +lips by one look at him: his eyes staring wide, the expression on +his face wild, and yet pitiful. + +'That's reet,' said he, seeing that her things were already on. +'Thou're wanted sore. Come along.' + +'Oh! dear God! my child!' cried Sylvia, clutching at the chair near +her; but recovering her eddying senses with the strong fact before +her that whatever the terror was, she was needed to combat it. + +'Ay; thy child!' said Kester, taking her almost roughly by the arm, +and drawing her away with him out through the open doors on to the +quay-side. + +'Tell me!' said Sylvia, faintly, 'is she dead?' + +'She's safe now,' said Kester. 'It's not her--it's him as saved her +as needs yo', if iver husband needed a wife.' + +'He?--who? O Philip! Philip! is it yo' at last?' + +Unheeding what spectators might see her movements, she threw up her +arms and staggered against the parapet of the bridge they were then +crossing. + +'He!--Philip!--saved Bella? Bella, our little Bella, as got her +dinner by my side, and went out wi' Jeremiah, as well as could be. I +cannot take it in; tell me, Kester.' She kept trembling so much in +voice and in body, that he saw she could not stir without danger of +falling until she was calmed; as it was, her eyes became filmy from +time to time, and she drew her breath in great heavy pants, leaning +all the while against the wall of the bridge. + +'It were no illness,' Kester began. 'T' little un had gone for a +walk wi' Jeremiah Foster, an' he were drawn for to go round t' edge +o' t' cliff, wheere they's makin' t' new walk reet o'er t' sea. But +it's but a bit on a pathway now; an' t' one was too oud, an' t' +other too young for t' see t' water comin' along wi' great leaps; +it's allays for comin' high up again' t' cliff, an' this spring-tide +it's comin' in i' terrible big waves. Some one said as they passed +t' man a-sittin' on a bit on a rock up above--a dunnot know, a only +know as a heared a great fearful screech i' t' air. A were just +a-restin' me at after a'd comed in, not half an hour i' t' place. +A've walked better nor a dozen mile to-day; an' a ran out, an' a +looked, an' just on t' walk, at t' turn, was t' swish of a wave +runnin' back as quick as t' mischief int' t' sea, an' oud Jeremiah +standin' like one crazy, lookin' o'er int' t' watter; an' like a +stroke o' leeghtnin' comes a man, an' int' t' very midst o' t' great +waves like a shot; an' then a knowed summut were in t' watter as +were nearer death than life; an' a seemed to misdoubt me that it +were our Bella; an' a shouts an' a cries for help, an' a goes mysel' +to t' very edge o' t' cliff, an' a bids oud Jeremiah, as was like +one beside hissel', houd tight on me, for he were good for nought +else; an' a bides my time, an' when a sees two arms houdin' out a +little drippin' streamin' child, a clutches her by her waist-band, +an' hauls her to land. She's noane t' worse for her bath, a'll be +bound.' + +'I mun go--let me,' said Sylvia, struggling with his detaining hand, +which he had laid upon her in the fear that she would slip down to +the ground in a faint, so ashen-gray was her face. 'Let me,--Bella, +I mun go see her.' + +He let go, and she stood still, suddenly feeling herself too weak to +stir. + +'Now, if you'll try a bit to be quiet, a'll lead yo' along; but yo' +mun be a steady and brave lass.' + +'I'll be aught if yo' only let me see Bella,' said Sylvia, humbly. + +'An' yo' niver ax at after him as saved her,' said Kester, +reproachfully. + +'I know it's Philip,' she whispered, 'and yo' said he wanted me; so +I know he's safe; and, Kester, I think I'm 'feared on him, and I'd +like to gather courage afore seeing him, and a look at Bella would +give me courage. It were a terrible time when I saw him last, and I +did say--' + +'Niver think on what thou did say; think on what thou will say to +him now, for he lies a-dyin'! He were dashed again t' cliff an' +bruised sore in his innards afore t' men as come wi' a boat could +pick him up.' + +She did not speak; she did not even tremble now; she set her teeth +together, and, holding tight by Kester, she urged him on; but when +they came to the end of the bridge, she seemed uncertain which way +to turn. + +'This way,' said Kester. 'He's been lodgin' wi' Sally this nine +week, an' niver a one about t' place as knowed him; he's been i' t' +wars an' getten his face brunt.' + +'And he was short o' food,' moaned Sylvia, 'and we had plenty, and I +tried to make yo'r sister turn him out, and send him away. Oh! will +God iver forgive me?' + +Muttering to herself, breaking her mutterings with sharp cries of +pain, Sylvia, with Kester's help, reached widow Dobson's house. It +was no longer a quiet, lonely dwelling. Several sailors stood about +the door, awaiting, in silent anxiety, for the verdict of the +doctor, who was even now examining Philip's injuries. Two or three +women stood talking eagerly, in low voices, in the doorway. + +But when Sylvia drew near the men fell back; and the women moved +aside as though to allow her to pass, all looking upon her with a +certain amount of sympathy, but perhaps with rather more of +antagonistic wonder as to how she was taking it--she who had been +living in ease and comfort while her husband's shelter was little +better than a hovel, her husband's daily life a struggle with +starvation; for so much of the lodger at widow Dobson's was +popularly known; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a tramp +was quite forgotten now. + +Sylvia felt the hardness of their looks, the hardness of their +silence; but it was as nothing to her. If such things could have +touched her at this moment, she would not have stood still right in +the midst of their averted hearts, and murmured something to Kester. +He could not hear the words uttered by that hoarse choked voice, +until he had stooped down and brought his ear to the level of her +mouth. + +'We'd better wait for t' doctors to come out,' she said again. She +stood by the door, shivering all over, almost facing the people in +the road, but with her face turned a little to the right, so that +they thought she was looking at the pathway on the cliff-side, a +hundred yards or so distant, below which the hungry waves still +lashed themselves into high ascending spray; while nearer to the +cottage, where their force was broken by the bar at the entrance to +the river, they came softly lapping up the shelving shore. + +Sylvia saw nothing of all this, though it was straight before her +eyes. She only saw a blurred mist; she heard no sound of waters, +though it filled the ears of those around. Instead she heard low +whispers pronouncing Philip's earthly doom. + +For the doctors were both agreed; his internal injury was of a +mortal kind, although, as the spine was severely injured above the +seat of the fatal bruise, he had no pain in the lower half of his +body. + +They had spoken in so low a tone that John Foster, standing only a +foot or so away, had not been able to hear their words. But Sylvia +heard each syllable there where she stood outside, shivering all +over in the sultry summer evening. She turned round to Kester. + +'I mun go to him, Kester; thou'll see that noane come in to us, when +t' doctors come out.' + +She spoke in a soft, calm voice; and he, not knowing what she had +heard, made some easy conditional promise. Then those opposite to +the cottage door fell back, for they could see the grave doctors +coming out, and John Foster, graver, sadder still, following them. +Without a word to them,--without a word even of inquiry--which many +outside thought and spoke of as strange--white-faced, dry-eyed +Sylvia slipped into the house out of their sight. + +And the waves kept lapping on the shelving shore. + +The room inside was dark, all except the little halo or circle of +light made by a dip candle. Widow Dobson had her back to the +bed--her bed--on to which Philip had been borne in the hurry of +terror as to whether he was alive or whether he was dead. She was +crying--crying quietly, but the tears down-falling fast, as, with +her back to the lowly bed, she was gathering up the dripping clothes +cut off from the poor maimed body by the doctors' orders. She only +shook her head as she saw Sylvia, spirit-like, steal in--white, +noiseless, and upborne from earth. + +But noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recognized, and +with a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to the wall, hiding +it in the shadow. + +He knew that she was by him; that she had knelt down by his bed; +that she was kissing his hand, over which the languor of approaching +death was stealing. But no one spoke. + +At length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an effort. + +'Little lassie, forgive me now! I cannot live to see the morn!' + +There was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, and he felt her +soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that ran through her +whole body. + +'I did thee a cruel wrong,' he said, at length. 'I see it now. But +I'm a dying man. I think that God will forgive me--and I've sinned +against Him; try, lassie--try, my Sylvie--will not thou forgive me?' + +He listened intently for a moment. He heard through the open window +the waves lapping on the shelving shore. But there came no word from +her; only that same long shivering, miserable sigh broke from her +lips at length. + +'Child,' said he, once more. 'I ha' made thee my idol; and if I +could live my life o'er again I would love my God more, and thee +less; and then I shouldn't ha' sinned this sin against thee. But +speak one word of love to me--one little word, that I may know I +have thy pardon.' + +'Oh, Philip! Philip!' she moaned, thus adjured. + +Then she lifted her head, and said, + +'Them were wicked, wicked words, as I said; and a wicked vow as I +vowed; and Lord God Almighty has ta'en me at my word. I'm sorely +punished, Philip, I am indeed.' + +He pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek. But he asked for yet +another word. + +'I did thee a wrong. In my lying heart I forgot to do to thee as I +would have had thee to do to me. And I judged Kinraid in my heart.' + +'Thou thought as he was faithless and fickle,' she answered quickly; +'and so he were. He were married to another woman not so many weeks +at after thou went away. Oh, Philip, Philip! and now I have thee +back, and--' + +'Dying' was the word she would have said, but first the dread of +telling him what she believed he did not know, and next her +passionate sobs, choked her. + +'I know,' said he, once more stroking her cheek, and soothing her +with gentle, caressing hand. 'Little lassie!' he said, after a while +when she was quiet from very exhaustion, 'I niver thought to be so +happy again. God is very merciful.' + +She lifted up her head, and asked wildly, 'Will He iver forgive me, +think yo'? I drove yo' out fra' yo'r home, and sent yo' away to t' +wars, wheere yo' might ha' getten yo'r death; and when yo' come +back, poor and lone, and weary, I told her for t' turn yo' out, for +a' I knew yo' must be starving in these famine times. I think I +shall go about among them as gnash their teeth for iver, while yo' +are wheere all tears are wiped away.' + +'No!' said Philip, turning round his face, forgetful of himself in +his desire to comfort her. 'God pities us as a father pities his +poor wandering children; the nearer I come to death the clearer I +see Him. But you and me have done wrong to each other; yet we can +see now how we were led to it; we can pity and forgive one another. +I'm getting low and faint, lassie; but thou must remember this: God +knows more, and is more forgiving than either you to me, or me to +you. I think and do believe as we shall meet together before His +face; but then I shall ha' learnt to love thee second to Him; not +first, as I have done here upon the earth.' + +Then he was silent--very still. Sylvia knew--widow Dobson had +brought it in--that there was some kind of medicine, sent by the +hopeless doctors, lying upon the table hard by, and she softly rose +and poured it out and dropped it into the half-open mouth. Then she +knelt down again, holding the hand feebly stretched out to her, and +watching the faint light in the wistful loving eyes. And in the +stillness she heard the ceaseless waves lapping against the shelving +shore. + +Something like an hour before this time, which was the deepest +midnight of the summer's night, Hester Rose had come hurrying up the +road to where Kester and his sister sate outside the open door, +keeping their watch under the star-lit sky, all others having gone +away, one by one, even John and Jeremiah Foster having returned to +their own house, where the little Bella lay, sleeping a sound and +healthy slumber after her perilous adventure. + +Hester had heard but little from William Darley as to the owner of +the watch and the half-crown; but he was chagrined at the failure of +all his skilful interrogations to elicit the truth, and promised her +further information in a few days, with all the more vehemence +because he was unaccustomed to be baffled. And Hester had again +whispered to herself 'Patience! Patience!' and had slowly returned +back to her home to find that Sylvia had left it, why she did not at +once discover. But, growing uneasy as the advancing hours neither +brought Sylvia nor little Bella to their home, she had set out for +Jeremiah Foster's as soon as she had seen her mother comfortably +asleep in her bed; and then she had learnt the whole story, bit by +bit, as each person who spoke broke in upon the previous narration +with some new particular. But from no one did she clearly learn +whether Sylvia was with her husband, or not; and so she came +speeding along the road, breathless, to where Kester sate in +wakeful, mournful silence, his sister's sleeping head lying on his +shoulder, the cottage door open, both for air and that there might +be help within call if needed; and the dim slanting oblong of the +interior light lying across the road. + +Hester came panting up, too agitated and breathless to ask how much +was truth of the fatal, hopeless tale which she had heard. Kester +looked at her without a word. Through this solemn momentary silence +the lapping of the ceaseless waves was heard, as they came up close +on the shelving shore. + +'He? Philip?' said she. Kester shook his head sadly. + +'And his wife--Sylvia?' said Hester. + +'In there with him, alone,' whispered Kester. + +Hester turned away, and wrung her hands together. + +'Oh, Lord God Almighty!' said she, 'was I not even worthy to bring +them together at last?' And she went away slowly and heavily back to +the side of her sleeping mother. But 'Thy will be done' was on her +quivering lips before she lay down to her rest. + +The soft gray dawn lightens the darkness of a midsummer night soon +after two o'clock. Philip watched it come, knowing that it was his +last sight of day,--as we reckon days on earth. + +He had been often near death as a soldier; once or twice, as when he +rushed into fire to save Kinraid, his chances of life had been as +one to a hundred; but yet he had had a chance. But now there was the +new feeling--the last new feeling which we shall any of us +experience in this world--that death was not only close at hand, +but inevitable. + +He felt its numbness stealing up him--stealing up him. But the head +was clear, the brain more than commonly active in producing vivid +impressions. + +It seemed but yesterday since he was a little boy at his mother's +knee, wishing with all the earnestness of his childish heart to be +like Abraham, who was called the friend of God, or David, who was +said to be the man after God's own heart, or St John, who was called +'the Beloved.' As very present seemed the day on which he made +resolutions of trying to be like them; it was in the spring, and +some one had brought in cowslips; and the scent of those flowers was +in his nostrils now, as he lay a-dying--his life ended, his battles +fought, his time for 'being good' over and gone--the opportunity, +once given in all eternity, past. + +All the temptations that had beset him rose clearly before him; the +scenes themselves stood up in their solid materialism--he could have +touched the places; the people, the thoughts, the arguments that +Satan had urged in behalf of sin, were reproduced with the vividness +of a present time. And he knew that the thoughts were illusions, the +arguments false and hollow; for in that hour came the perfect vision +of the perfect truth: he saw the 'way to escape' which had come +along with the temptation; now, the strong resolve of an ardent +boyhood, with all a life before it to show the world 'what a +Christian might be'; and then the swift, terrible now, when his +naked, guilty soul shrank into the shadow of God's mercy-seat, out +of the blaze of His anger against all those who act a lie. + +His mind was wandering, and he plucked it back. Was this death in +very deed? He tried to grasp at the present, the earthly present, +fading quick away. He lay there on the bed--on Sally Dobson's bed in +the house-place, not on his accustomed pallet in the lean-to. He +knew that much. And the door was open into the still, dusk night; +and through the open casement he could hear the lapping of the waves +on the shelving shore, could see the soft gray dawn over the sea--he +knew it was over the sea--he saw what lay unseen behind the poor +walls of the cottage. And it was Sylvia who held his hand tight in +her warm, living grasp; it was his wife whose arm was thrown around +him, whose sobbing sighs shook his numbed frame from time to time. + +'God bless and comfort my darling,' he said to himself. 'She knows +me now. All will be right in heaven--in the light of God's mercy.' + +And then he tried to remember all that he had ever read about, God, +and all that the blessed Christ--that bringeth glad tidings of great +joy unto all people, had said of the Father, from whom He came. +Those sayings dropped like balm down upon his troubled heart and +brain. He remembered his mother, and how she had loved him; and he +was going to a love wiser, tenderer, deeper than hers. + +As he thought this, he moved his hands as if to pray; but Sylvia +clenched her hold, and he lay still, praying all the same for her, +for his child, and for himself. Then he saw the sky redden with the +first flush of dawn; he heard Kester's long-drawn sigh of weariness +outside the open door. + +He had seen widow Dobson pass through long before to keep the +remainder of her watch on the bed in the lean-to, which had been his +for many and many a sleepless and tearful night. Those nights were +over--he should never see that poor chamber again, though it was +scarce two feet distant. He began to lose all sense of the +comparative duration of time: it seemed as long since kind Sally +Dobson had bent over him with soft, lingering look, before going +into the humble sleeping-room--as long as it was since his boyhood, +when he stood by his mother dreaming of the life that should be his, +with the scent of the cowslips tempting him to be off to the +woodlands where they grew. Then there came a rush and an eddying +through his brain--his soul trying her wings for the long flight. +Again he was in the present: he heard the waves lapping against the +shelving shore once again. + +And now his thoughts came back to Sylvia. Once more he spoke aloud, +in a strange and terrible voice, which was not his. Every sound came +with efforts that were new to him. + +'My wife! Sylvie! Once more--forgive me all.' + +She sprang up, she kissed his poor burnt lips; she held him in her +arms, she moaned, and said, + +'Oh, wicked me! forgive me--me--Philip!' + +Then he spoke, and said, 'Lord, forgive us our trespasses as we +forgive each other!' And after that the power of speech was +conquered by the coming death. He lay very still, his consciousness +fast fading away, yet coming back in throbs, so that he knew it was +Sylvia who touched his lips with cordial, and that it was Sylvia who +murmured words of love in his ear. He seemed to sleep at last, and +so he did--a kind of sleep, but the light of the red morning sun +fell on his eyes, and with one strong effort he rose up, and turned +so as once more to see his wife's pale face of misery. + +'In heaven,' he cried, and a bright smile came on his face, as he +fell back on his pillow. + +Not long after Hester came, the little Bella scarce awake in her +arms, with the purpose of bringing his child to see him ere yet he +passed away. Hester had watched and prayed through the livelong +night. And now she found him dead, and Sylvia, tearless and almost +unconscious, lying by him, her hand holding his, her other thrown +around him. + +Kester, poor old man, was sobbing bitterly; but she not at all. + +Then Hester bore her child to her, and Sylvia opened wide her +miserable eyes, and only stared, as if all sense was gone from her. +But Bella suddenly rousing up at the sight of the poor, scarred, +peaceful face, cried out,-- + +'Poor man who was so hungry. Is he not hungry now?' + +'No,' said Hester, softly. 'The former things are passed away--and +he is gone where there is no more sorrow, and no more pain.' + +But then she broke down into weeping and crying. Sylvia sat up and +looked at her. + +'Why do yo' cry, Hester?' she said. 'Yo' niver said that yo' +wouldn't forgive him as long as yo' lived. Yo' niver broke the heart +of him that loved yo', and let him almost starve at yo'r very door. +Oh, Philip! my Philip, tender and true.' + +Then Hester came round and closed the sad half-open eyes; kissing +the calm brow with a long farewell kiss. As she did so, her eye fell +on a black ribbon round his neck. She partly lifted it out; to it +was hung a half-crown piece. + +'This is the piece he left at William Darley's to be bored,' said +she, 'not many days ago.' + +Bella had crept to her mother's arms as a known haven in this +strange place; and the touch of his child loosened the fountains of +her tears. She stretched out her hand for the black ribbon, put it +round her own neck; after a while she said, + +'If I live very long, and try hard to be very good all that time, do +yo' think, Hester, as God will let me to him where he is?' + + * * * * * + +Monkshaven is altered now into a rising bathing place. Yet, standing +near the site of widow Dobson's house on a summer's night, at the +ebb of a spring-tide, you may hear the waves come lapping up the +shelving shore with the same ceaseless, ever-recurrent sound as that +which Philip listened to in the pauses between life and death. + +And so it will be until 'there shall be no more sea'. + +But the memory of man fades away. A few old people can still tell +you the tradition of the man who died in a cottage somewhere about +this spot,--died of starvation while his wife lived in hard-hearted +plenty not two good stone-throws away. This is the form into which +popular feeling, and ignorance of the real facts, have moulded the +story. Not long since a lady went to the 'Public Baths', a handsome +stone building erected on the very site of widow Dobson's cottage, +and finding all the rooms engaged she sat down and had some talk +with the bathing woman; and, as it chanced, the conversation fell on +Philip Hepburn and the legend of his fate. + +'I knew an old man when I was a girl,' said the bathing woman, 'as +could niver abide to hear t' wife blamed. He would say nothing +again' th' husband; he used to say as it were not fit for men to be +judging; that she had had her sore trial, as well as Hepburn +hisself.' + +The lady asked, 'What became of the wife?' + +'She was a pale, sad woman, allays dressed in black. I can just +remember her when I was a little child, but she died before her +daughter was well grown up; and Miss Rose took t' lassie, as had +always been like her own.' + +'Miss Rose?' + +'Hester Rose! have yo' niver heared of Hester Rose, she as founded +t' alms-houses for poor disabled sailors and soldiers on t' +Horncastle road? There's a piece o' stone in front to say that "This +building is erected in memory of P. H."--and some folk will have it +P. H. stands for t' name o' th' man as was starved to death.' + +'And the daughter?' + +'One o' th' Fosters, them as founded t' Old Bank, left her a vast o' +money; and she were married to distant cousin of theirs, and went +off to settle in America many and many a year ago.' + + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sylvia's Lovers, Vol. III, by Elizabeth Gaskell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIA'S LOVERS, VOL. 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III. + +LONDON: + +M.DCCC.LXIII. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +HAPPY DAYS + + + + + +And now Philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could desire. The +business flourished, and money beyond his moderate wants came in. As +for himself he required very little; but he had always looked +forward to placing his idol in a befitting shrine; and means for +this were now furnished to him. The dress, the comforts, the +position he had desired for Sylvia were all hers. She did not need +to do a stroke of household work if she preferred to 'sit in her +parlour and sew up a seam'. Indeed Phoebe resented any interference +in the domestic labour, which she had performed so long, that she +looked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her own. 'Mrs +Hepburn' (as Sylvia was now termed) had a good dark silk gown-piece +in her drawers, as well as the poor dove-coloured, against the day +when she chose to leave off mourning; and stuff for either gray or +scarlet cloaks was hers at her bidding. + +What she cared for far more were the comforts with which it was in +her power to surround her mother. In this Philip vied with her; for +besides his old love, and new pity for his aunt Bell, he never +forgot how she had welcomed him to Haytersbank, and favoured his +love to Sylvia, in the yearning days when he little hoped he should +ever win his cousin to be his wife. But even if he had not had these +grateful and affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, he would +have done much for her if only to gain the sweet, rare smiles which +his wife never bestowed upon him so freely as when she saw him +attending to 'mother,' for so both of them now called Bell. For her +creature comforts, her silk gowns, and her humble luxury, Sylvia did +not care; Philip was almost annoyed at the indifference she often +manifested to all his efforts to surround her with such things. It +was even a hardship to her to leave off her country dress, her +uncovered hair, her linsey petticoat, and loose bed-gown, and to don +a stiff and stately gown for her morning dress. Sitting in the dark +parlour at the back of the shop, and doing 'white work,' was much +more wearying to her than running out into the fields to bring up +the cows, or spinning wool, or making up butter. She sometimes +thought to herself that it was a strange kind of life where there +were no out-door animals to look after; the 'ox and the ass' had +hitherto come into all her ideas of humanity; and her care and +gentleness had made the dumb creatures round her father's home into +mute friends with loving eyes, looking at her as if wistful to speak +in words the grateful regard that she could read without the poor +expression of language. + +She missed the free open air, the great dome of sky above the +fields; she rebelled against the necessity of 'dressing' (as she +called it) to go out, although she acknowledged that it was a +necessity where the first step beyond the threshold must be into a +populous street. + +It is possible that Philip was right at one time when he had thought +to win her by material advantages; but the old vanities had been +burnt out of her by the hot iron of acute suffering. A great deal of +passionate feeling still existed, concealed and latent; but at this +period it appeared as though she were indifferent to most things, +and had lost the power of either hoping or fearing much. She was +stunned into a sort of temporary numbness on most points; those on +which she was sensitive being such as referred to the injustice and +oppression of her father's death, or anything that concerned her +mother. + +She was quiet even to passiveness in all her dealings with Philip; +he would have given not a little for some of the old bursts of +impatience, the old pettishness, which, naughty as they were, had +gone to form his idea of the former Sylvia. Once or twice he was +almost vexed with her for her docility; he wanted her so much to +have a will of her own, if only that he might know how to rouse her +to pleasure by gratifying it. Indeed he seldom fell asleep at nights +without his last thoughts being devoted to some little plan for the +morrow, that he fancied she would like; and when he wakened in the +early dawn he looked to see if she were indeed sleeping by his side, +or whether it was not all a dream that he called Sylvia 'wife.' + +He was aware that her affection for him was not to be spoken of in +the same way as his for her, but he found much happiness in only +being allowed to love and cherish her; and with the patient +perseverance that was one remarkable feature in his character, he +went on striving to deepen and increase her love when most other men +would have given up the endeavour, made themselves content with half +a heart, and turned to some other object of attainment. All this +time Philip was troubled by a dream that recurred whenever he was +over-fatigued, or otherwise not in perfect health. Over and over +again in this first year of married life he dreamt this dream; +perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never varied. It was +always of Kinraid's return; Kinraid was full of life in Philip's +dream, though in his waking hours he could and did convince himself +by all the laws of probability that his rival was dead. He never +remembered the exact sequence of events in that terrible dream after +he had roused himself, with a fight and a struggle, from his +feverish slumbers. He was generally sitting up in bed when he found +himself conscious, his heart beating wildly, with a conviction of +Kinraid's living presence somewhere near him in the darkness. +Occasionally Sylvia was disturbed by his agitation, and would +question him about his dreams, having, like most of her class at +that time, great faith in their prophetic interpretation; but Philip +never gave her any truth in his reply. + +After all, and though he did not acknowledge it even to himself, the +long-desired happiness was not so delicious and perfect as he had +anticipated. Many have felt the same in their first year of married +life; but the faithful, patient nature that still works on, striving +to gain love, and capable itself of steady love all the while, is a +gift not given to all. + +For many weeks after their wedding, Kester never came near them: a +chance word or two from Sylvia showed Philip that she had noticed +this and regretted it; and, accordingly, he made it his business at +the next leisure opportunity to go to Haytersbank (never saying a +word to his wife of his purpose), and seek out Kester. + +All the whole place was altered! It was new white-washed, new +thatched: the patches of colour in the surrounding ground were +changed with altered tillage; the great geraniums were gone from the +window, and instead, was a smart knitted blind. Children played +before the house-door; a dog lying on the step flew at Philip; all +was so strange, that it was even the strangest thing of all for +Kester to appear where everything else was so altered! + +Philip had to put up with a good deal of crabbed behaviour on the +part of the latter before he could induce Kester to promise to come +down into the town and see Sylvia in her new home. + +Somehow, the visit when paid was but a failure; at least, it seemed +so at the time, though probably it broke the ice of restraint which +was forming over the familiar intercourse between Kester and Sylvia. +The old servant was daunted by seeing Sylvia in a strange place, and +stood, sleeking his hair down, and furtively looking about him, +instead of seating himself on the chair Sylvia had so eagerly +brought forward for him. + +Then his sense of the estrangement caused by their new positions +infected her, and she began to cry pitifully, saying,-- + +'Oh, Kester! Kester! tell me about Haytersbank! Is it just as it +used to be in feyther's days?' + +'Well, a cannot say as it is,' said Kester, thankful to have a +subject started. 'They'n pleughed up t' oud pasture-field, and are +settin' it for 'taters. They're not for much cattle, isn't +Higginses. They'll be for corn in t' next year, a reckon, and +they'll just ha' their pains for their payment. But they're allays +so pig-headed, is folk fra' a distance.' + +So they went on discoursing on Haytersbank and the old days, till +Bell Robson, having finished her afternoon nap, came slowly +down-stairs to join them; and after that the conversation became so +broken up, from the desire of the other two to attend and reply as +best they could to her fragmentary and disjointed talk, that Kester +took his leave before long; falling, as he did so, into the formal +and unnaturally respectful manner which he had adopted on first +coming in. + +But Sylvia ran after him, and brought him back from the door. + +'To think of thy going away, Kester, without either bit or drink; +nay, come back wi' thee, and taste wine and cake.' + +Kester stood at the door, half shy, half pleased, while Sylvia, in +all the glow and hurry of a young housekeeper's hospitality, sought +for the decanter of wine, and a wine-glass in the corner cupboard, +and hastily cut an immense wedge of cake, which she crammed into his +hand in spite of his remonstrances; and then she poured him out an +overflowing glass of wine, which Kester would far rather have gone +without, as he knew manners too well to suppose that he might taste +it without having gone through the preliminary ceremony of wishing +the donor health and happiness. He stood red and half smiling, with +his cake in one hand, his wine in the other, and then began,-- + +'Long may ye live, +Happy may ye he, +And blest with a num'rous +Pro-ge-ny.' + +'Theere, that's po'try for yo' as I larnt i' my youth. But there's a +deal to be said as cannot be put int' po'try, an' yet a cannot say +it, somehow. It 'd tax a parson t' say a' as a've getten i' my mind. +It's like a heap o' woo' just after shearin' time; it's worth a +deal, but it tak's a vast o' combin', an' cardin', an' spinnin' +afore it can be made use on. If a were up to t' use o' words, a +could say a mighty deal; but somehow a'm tongue-teed when a come to +want my words most, so a'll only just mak' bold t' say as a think +yo've done pretty well for yo'rsel', getten a house-full o' +furniture' (looking around him as he said this), 'an' vittle an' +clothin' for t' axing, belike, an' a home for t' missus in her time +o' need; an' mebbe not such a bad husband as a once thought yon man +'ud mak'; a'm not above sayin' as he's, mebbe, better nor a took him +for;--so here's to ye both, and wishin' ye health and happiness, ay, +and money to buy yo' another, as country folk say.' + +Having ended his oration, much to his own satisfaction, Kester +tossed off his glass of wine, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with +the back of his hand, pocketed his cake, and made off. + +That night Sylvia spoke of his visit to her husband. Philip never +said how he himself had brought it to pass, nor did he name the fact +that he had heard the old man come in just as he himself had +intended going into the parlour for tea, but had kept away, as he +thought Sylvia and Kester would most enjoy their interview +undisturbed. And Sylvia felt as if her husband's silence was +unsympathizing, and shut up the feelings that were just beginning to +expand towards him. She sank again into the listless state of +indifference from which nothing but some reference to former days, +or present consideration for her mother, could rouse her. + +Hester was almost surprised at Sylvia's evident liking for her. By +slow degrees Hester was learning to love the woman, whose position +as Philip's wife she would have envied so keenly had she not been so +truly good and pious. But Sylvia seemed as though she had given +Hester her whole affection all at once. Hester could not understand +this, while she was touched and melted by the trust it implied. For +one thing Sylvia remembered and regretted--her harsh treatment of +Hester the rainy, stormy night on which the latter had come to +Haytersbank to seek her and her mother, and bring them into +Monkshaven to see the imprisoned father and husband. Sylvia had been +struck with Hester's patient endurance of her rudeness, a rudeness +which she was conscious that she herself should have immediately and +vehemently resented. Sylvia did not understand how a totally +different character from hers might immediately forgive the anger +she could not forget; and because Hester had been so meek at the +time, Sylvia, who knew how passing and transitory was her own anger, +thought that all was forgotten; while Hester believed that the +words, which she herself could not have uttered except under deep +provocation, meant much more than they did, and admired and wondered +at Sylvia for having so entirely conquered her anger against her. + +Again, the two different women were divergently affected by the +extreme fondness which Bell had shown towards Hester ever since +Sylvia's wedding-day. Sylvia, who had always received more love from +others than she knew what to do with, had the most entire faith in +her own supremacy in her mother's heart, though at times Hester +would do certain things more to the poor old woman's satisfaction. +Hester, who had craved for the affection which had been withheld +from her, and had from that one circumstance become distrustful of +her own power of inspiring regard, while she exaggerated the delight +of being beloved, feared lest Sylvia should become jealous of her +mother's open display of great attachment and occasional preference +for Hester. But such a thought never entered Sylvia's mind. She was +more thankful than she knew how to express towards any one who made +her mother happy; as has been already said, the contributing to Bell +Robson's pleasures earned Philip more of his wife's smiles than +anything else. And Sylvia threw her whole heart into the words and +caresses she lavished on Hester whenever poor Mrs. Robson spoke of +the goodness and kindness of the latter. Hester attributed more +virtue to these sweet words and deeds of gratitude than they +deserved; they did not imply in Sylvia any victory over evil +temptation, as they would have done in Hester. + +It seemed to be Sylvia's fate to captivate more people than she +cared to like back again. She turned the heads of John and Jeremiah +Foster, who could hardly congratulate Philip enough on his choice of +a wife. + +They had been prepared to be critical on one who had interfered with +their favourite project of a marriage between Philip and Hester; +and, though full of compassion for the cruelty of Daniel Robson's +fate, they were too completely men of business not to have some +apprehension that the connection of Philip Hepburn with the daughter +of a man who was hanged, might injure the shop over which both his +and their name appeared. But all the possible proprieties demanded +that they should pay attention to the bride of their former shopman +and present successor; and the very first visitors whom Sylvia had +received after her marriage had been John and Jeremiah Foster, in +their sabbath-day clothes. They found her in the parlour (so +familiar to both of them!) clear-starching her mother's caps, which +had to be got up in some particular fashion that Sylvia was afraid +of dictating to Phoebe. + +She was a little disturbed at her visitors discovering her at this +employment; but she was on her own ground, and that gave her +self-possession; and she welcomed the two old men so sweetly and +modestly, and looked so pretty and feminine, and, besides, so +notable in her handiwork, that she conquered all their prejudices at +one blow; and their first thought on leaving the shop was how to do +her honour, by inviting her to a supper party at Jeremiah Foster's +house. + +Sylvia was dismayed when she was bidden to this wedding feast, and +Philip had to use all his authority, though tenderly, to make her +consent to go at all. She had been to merry country parties like the +Corneys', and to bright haymaking romps in the open air; but never +to a set stately party at a friend's house. + +She would fain have made attendance on her mother an excuse; but +Philip knew he must not listen to any such plea, and applied to +Hester in the dilemma, asking her to remain with Mrs. Robson while he +and Sylvia went out visiting; and Hester had willingly, nay, eagerly +consented--it was much more to her taste than going out. + +So Philip and Sylvia set out, arm-in-arm, down Bridge Street, across +the bridge, and then clambered up the hill. On the way he gave her +the directions she asked for about her behaviour as bride and most +honoured guest; and altogether succeeded, against his intention and +will, in frightening her so completely as to the grandeur and +importance of the occasion, and the necessity of remembering certain +set rules, and making certain set speeches and attending to them +when the right time came, that, if any one so naturally graceful +could have been awkward, Sylvia would have been so that night. + +As it was, she sate, pale and weary-looking, on the very edge of her +chair; she uttered the formal words which Philip had told her were +appropriate to the occasion, and she heartily wished herself safe at +home and in bed. Yet she left but one unanimous impression on the +company when she went away, namely, that she was the prettiest and +best-behaved woman they had ever seen, and that Philip Hepburn had +done well in choosing her, felon's daughter though she might be. + +Both the hosts had followed her into the lobby to help Philip in +cloaking her, and putting on her pattens. They were full of +old-fashioned compliments and good wishes; one speech of theirs came +up to her memory in future years:-- + +'Now, Sylvia Hepburn,' said Jeremiah, 'I've known thy husband long, +and I don't say but what thou hast done well in choosing him; but if +he ever neglects or ill-uses thee, come to me, and I'll give him a +sound lecture on his conduct. Mind, I'm thy friend from this day +forrards, and ready to take thy part against him!' + +Philip smiled as if the day would never come when he should neglect +or ill-use his darling; Sylvia smiled a little, without much +attending to, or caring for, the words that were detaining her, +tired as she was; John and Jeremiah chuckled over the joke; but the +words came up again in after days, as words idly spoken sometimes +do. + +Before the end of that first year, Philip had learnt to be jealous +of his wife's new love for Hester. To the latter, Sylvia gave the +free confidence on many things which Philip fancied she withheld +from him. A suspicion crossed his mind, from time to time, that +Sylvia might speak of her former lover to Hester. It would be not +unnatural, he thought, if she did so, believing him to be dead; but +the idea irritated him. + +He was entirely mistaken, however; Sylvia, with all her apparent +frankness, kept her deep sorrows to herself. She never mentioned her +father's name, though he was continually present to her mind. Nor +did she speak of Kinraid to human being, though, for his sake, her +voice softened when, by chance, she spoke to a passing sailor; and +for his sake her eyes lingered on such men longer than on others, +trying to discover in them something of the old familiar gait; and +partly for his dead sake, and partly because of the freedom of the +outlook and the freshness of the air, she was glad occasionally to +escape from the comfortable imprisonment of her 'parlour', and the +close streets around the market-place, and to mount the cliffs and +sit on the turf, gazing abroad over the wide still expanse of the +open sea; for, at that height, even breaking waves only looked like +broken lines of white foam on the blue watery plain. + +She did not want any companion on these rambles, which had somewhat +of the delight of stolen pleasures; for all the other respectable +matrons and town-dwellers whom she knew were content to have always +a business object for their walk, or else to stop at home in their +own households; and Sylvia was rather ashamed of her own yearnings +for solitude and open air, and the sight and sound of the +mother-like sea. She used to take off her hat, and sit there, her +hands clasping her knees, the salt air lifting her bright curls, +gazing at the distant horizon over the sea, in a sad dreaminess of +thought; if she had been asked on what she meditated, she could not +have told you. + +But, by-and-by, the time came when she was a prisoner in the house; +a prisoner in her room, lying in bed with a little baby by her +side--her child, Philip's child. His pride, his delight knew no +bounds; this was a new fast tie between them; this would reconcile +her to the kind of life that, with all its respectability and +comfort, was so different from what she had lived before, and which +Philip had often perceived that she felt to be dull and restraining. +He already began to trace in the little girl, only a few days old, +the lovely curves that he knew so well by heart in the mother's +face. Sylvia, too, pale, still, and weak, was very happy; yes, +really happy for the first time since her irrevocable marriage. For +its irrevocableness had weighed much upon her with a sense of dull +hopelessness; she felt all Philip's kindness, she was grateful to +him for his tender regard towards her mother, she was learning to +love him as well as to like and respect him. She did not know what +else she could have done but marry so true a friend, and she and her +mother so friendless; but, at the same time, it was like lead on her +morning spirits when she awoke and remembered that the decision was +made, the dead was done, the choice taken which comes to most people +but once in their lives. Now the little baby came in upon this state +of mind like a ray of sunlight into a gloomy room. + +Even her mother was rejoiced and proud; even with her crazed brain +and broken heart, the sight of sweet, peaceful infancy brought light +to her. All the old ways of holding a baby, of hushing it to sleep, +of tenderly guarding its little limbs from injury, came back, like +the habits of her youth, to Bell; and she was never so happy or so +easy in her mind, or so sensible and connected in her ideas, as when +she had Sylvia's baby in her arms. + +It was a pretty sight to see, however familiar to all of us such +things may be--the pale, worn old woman, in her quaint, +old-fashioned country dress, holding the little infant on her knees, +looking at its open, unspeculative eyes, and talking the little +language to it as though it could understand; the father on his +knees, kept prisoner by a small, small finger curled round his +strong and sinewy one, and gazing at the tiny creature with +wondering idolatry; the young mother, fair, pale, and smiling, +propped up on pillows in order that she, too, might see the +wonderful babe; it was astonishing how the doctor could come and go +without being drawn into the admiring vortex, and look at this baby +just as if babies came into the world every day. + +'Philip,' said Sylvia, one night, as he sate as still as a mouse in +her room, imagining her to be asleep. He was by her bed-side in a +moment. + +'I've been thinking what she's to be called. Isabella, after mother; +and what were yo'r mother's name?' + +'Margaret,' said he. + +'Margaret Isabella; Isabella Margaret. Mother's called Bell. She +might be called Bella.' + +'I could ha' wished her to be called after thee.' + +She made a little impatient movement. + +'Nay; Sylvia's not a lucky name. Best be called after thy mother and +mine. And I want for to ask Hester to be godmother.' + +'Anything thou likes, sweetheart. Shall we call her Rose, after +Hester Rose?' + +'No, no!' said Sylvia; 'she mun be called after my mother, or thine, +or both. I should like her to be called Bella, after mother, because +she's so fond of baby.' + +'Anything to please thee, darling.' + +'Don't say that as if it didn't signify; there's a deal in having a +pretty name,' said Sylvia, a little annoyed. 'I ha' allays hated +being called Sylvia. It were after father's mother, Sylvia Steele.' + +'I niver thought any name in a' the world so sweet and pretty as +Sylvia,' said Philip, fondly; but she was too much absorbed in her +own thoughts to notice either his manner or his words. + +'There, yo'll not mind if it is Bella, because yo' see my mother is +alive to be pleased by its being named after her, and Hester may be +godmother, and I'll ha' t' dove-coloured silk as yo' gave me afore +we were married made up into a cloak for it to go to church in.' + +'I got it for thee,' said Philip, a little disappointed. 'It'll be +too good for the baby.' + +'Eh! but I'm so careless, I should be spilling something on it? But +if thou got it for me I cannot find i' my heart for t' wear it on +baby, and I'll have it made into a christening gown for mysel'. But +I'll niver feel at my ease in it, for fear of spoiling it.' + +'Well! an' if thou does spoil it, love, I'll get thee another. I +make account of riches only for thee; that I may be able to get thee +whativer thou's a fancy for, for either thysel', or thy mother.' + +She lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put up her lips to +kiss him for these words. + +Perhaps on that day Philip reached the zenith of his life's +happiness. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +EVIL OMENS + + + + + +The first step in Philip's declension happened in this way. Sylvia +had made rapid progress in her recovery; but now she seemed at a +stationary point of weakness; wakeful nights succeeding to languid +days. Occasionally she caught a little sleep in the afternoons, but +she usually awoke startled and feverish. + +One afternoon Philip had stolen upstairs to look at her and his +child; but the efforts he made at careful noiselessness made the +door creak on its hinges as he opened. it. The woman employed to +nurse her had taken the baby into another room that no sound might +rouse her from her slumber; and Philip would probably have been +warned against entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping had +he been perceived by the nurse. As it was, he opened the door, made +a noise, and Sylvia started up, her face all one flush, her eyes +wild and uncertain; she looked about her as if she did not know +where she was; pushed the hair off her hot forehead; all which +actions Philip saw, dismayed and regretful. But he kept still, +hoping that she would lie down and compose herself. Instead she +stretched out her arms imploringly, and said, in a voice full of +yearning and tears,-- + +'Oh! Charley! come to me--come to me!' and then as she more fully +became aware of the place where she was, her actual situation, she +sank back and feebly began to cry. Philip's heart boiled within him; +any man's would under the circumstances, but he had the sense of +guilty concealment to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. Her +weak cry after another man, too, irritated him, partly through his +anxious love, which made him wise to know how much physical harm she +was doing herself. At this moment he stirred, or unintentionally +made some sound: she started up afresh, and called out,-- + +'Oh, who's theere? Do, for God's sake, tell me who yo' are!' + +'It's me,' said Philip, coming forwards, striving to keep down the +miserable complication of love and jealousy, and remorse and anger, +that made his heart beat so wildly, and almost took him out of +himself. Indeed, he must have been quite beside himself for the +time, or he could never have gone on to utter the unwise, cruel +words he did. But she spoke first, in a distressed and plaintive +tone of voice. + +'Oh, Philip, I've been asleep, and yet I think I was awake! And I +saw Charley Kinraid as plain as iver I see thee now, and he wasn't +drowned at all. I'm sure he's alive somewheere; he were so clear and +life-like. Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?' + +She wrung her hands in feverish distress. Urged by passionate +feelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to quench the +agitation which was doing her harm, Philip spoke, hardly knowing +what he said. + +'Kinraid's dead, I tell yo', Sylvie! And what kind of a woman are +yo' to go dreaming of another man i' this way, and taking on so +about him, when yo're a wedded wife, with a child as yo've borne to +another man?' + +In a moment he could have bitten out his tongue. She looked at him +with the mute reproach which some of us see (God help us!) in the +eyes of the dead, as they come before our sad memories in the +night-season; looked at him with such a solemn, searching look, +never saying a word of reply or defence. Then she lay down, +motionless and silent. He had been instantly stung with remorse for +his speech; the words were not beyond his lips when an agony had +entered his heart; but her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumb +and motionless as if by a spell. + +Now he rushed to the bed on which she lay, and half knelt, half +threw himself upon it, imploring her to forgive him; regardless for +the time of any evil consequences to her, it seemed as if he must +have her pardon--her relenting--at any price, even if they both died +in the act of reconciliation. But she lay speechless, and, as far as +she could be, motionless, the bed trembling under her with the +quivering she could not still. + +Philip's wild tones caught the nurse's ears, and she entered full of +the dignified indignation of wisdom. + +'Are yo' for killing yo'r wife, measter?' she asked. 'She's noane so +strong as she can bear flytin' and scoldin', nor will she be for +many a week to come. Go down wi' ye, and leave her i' peace if yo're +a man as can be called a man!' + +Her anger was rising as she caught sight of Sylvia's averted face. +It was flushed crimson, her eyes full of intense emotion of some +kind, her lips compressed; but an involuntary twitching +overmastering her resolute stillness from time to time. Philip, who +did not see the averted face, nor understand the real danger in +which he was placing his wife, felt as though he must have one word, +one responsive touch of the hand which lay passive in his, which was +not even drawn away from the kisses with which he covered it, any +more than if it had been an impassive stone. The nurse had fairly to +take him by the shoulders, and turn him out of the room. + +In half an hour the doctor had to be summoned. Of course, the nurse +gave him her version of the events of the afternoon, with much +_animus_ against Philip; and the doctor thought it his duty to have +some very serious conversation with him. + +'I do assure you, Mr. Hepburn, that, in the state your wife has been +in for some days, it was little less than madness on your part to +speak to her about anything that could give rise to strong emotion.' + +'It was madness, sir!' replied Philip, in a low, miserable tone of +voice. The doctor's heart was touched, in spite of the nurse's +accusations against the scolding husband. Yet the danger was now too +serious for him to mince matters. + +'I must tell you that I cannot answer for her life, unless the +greatest precautions are taken on your part, and unless the measures +I shall use have the effect I wish for in the next twenty-four +hours. She is on the verge of a brain fever. Any allusion to the +subject which has been the final cause of the state in which she now +is must be most cautiously avoided, even to a chance word which may +bring it to her memory.' + +And so on; but Philip seemed to hear only this: then he might not +express contrition, or sue for pardon, he must go on unforgiven +through all this stress of anxiety; and even if she recovered the +doctor warned him of the undesirableness of recurring to what had +passed! + +Heavy miserable times of endurance and waiting have to be passed +through by all during the course of their lives; and Philip had had +his share of such seasons, when the heart, and the will, and the +speech, and the limbs, must be bound down with strong resolution to +patience. + +For many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden to see Sylvia, as +the very sound of his footstep brought on a recurrence of the fever +and convulsive movement. Yet she seemed, from questions she feebly +asked the nurse, to have forgotten all that had happened on the day +of her attack from the time when she dropped off to sleep. But how +much she remembered of after occurrences no one could ascertain. She +was quiet enough when, at length, Philip was allowed to see her. But +he was half jealous of his child, when he watched how she could +smile at it, while she never changed a muscle of her face at all he +could do or say. + +And of a piece with this extreme quietude and reserve was her +behaviour to him when at length she had fully recovered, and was +able to go about the house again. Philip thought many a time of the +words she had used long before--before their marriage. Ominous words +they were. + +'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me to +forget.' + +Philip was tender even to humility in his conduct towards her. But +nothing stirred her from her fortress of reserve. And he knew she +was so different; he knew how loving, nay, passionate, was her +nature--vehement, demonstrative--oh! how could he stir her once more +into expression, even if the first show or speech she made was of +anger? Then he tried being angry with her himself; he was sometimes +unjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke her +into defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness. He +only seemed to drive her love away still more. + +If any one had known all that was passing in that household, while +yet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis, +their hearts would have been sorry for the man who lingered long at +the door of the room in which his wife sate cooing and talking to +her baby, and sometimes laughing back to it, or who was soothing the +querulousness of failing age with every possible patience of love; +sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for the profusion of +tenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only by stealth +caught the echoes of what ought to have been his. + +It was so difficult to complain, too; impossible, in fact. +Everything that a wife could do from duty she did; but the love +seemed to have fled, and, in such cases, no reproaches or complaints +can avail to bring it back. So reason outsiders, and are convinced +of the result before the experiment is made. But Philip could not +reason, or could not yield to reason; and so he complained and +reproached. She did not much answer him; but he thought that her +eyes expressed the old words,- + +'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me to +forget.' + +However, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, that, even in the +most tender and stable masculine natures, at the supremest season of +their lives, there is room for other thoughts and passions than such +as are connected with love. Even with the most domestic and +affectionate men, their emotions seem to be kept in a cell distinct +and away from their actual lives. Philip had other thoughts and +other occupations than those connected with his wife during all this +time. + +An uncle of his mother's, a Cumberland 'statesman', of whose +existence he was barely conscious, died about this time, leaving to +his unknown great-nephew four or five hundred pounds, which put him +at once in a different position with regard to his business. +Henceforward his ambition was roused,--such humble ambition as +befitted a shop-keeper in a country town sixty or seventy years ago. +To be respected by the men around him had always been an object with +him, and was, perhaps, becoming more so than ever now, as a sort of +refuge from his deep, sorrowful mortification in other directions. +He was greatly pleased at being made a sidesman; and, in preparation +for the further honour of being churchwarden, he went regularly +twice a day to church on Sundays. There was enough religious feeling +in him to make him disguise the worldly reason for such conduct from +himself. He believed that he went because he thought it right to +attend public worship in the parish church whenever it was offered +up; but it may be questioned of him, as of many others, how far he +would have been as regular in attendance in a place where he was not +known. With this, however, we have nothing to do. The fact was that +he went regularly to church, and he wished his wife to accompany him +to the pew, newly painted, with his name on the door, where he sate +in full sight of the clergyman and congregation. + +Sylvia had never been in the habit of such regular church-going, and +she felt it as a hardship, and slipped out of the duty as often as +ever she could. In her unmarried days, she and her parents had gone +annually to the mother-church of the parish in which Haytersbank was +situated: on the Monday succeeding the Sunday next after the Romish +Saint's Day, to whom the church was dedicated, there was a great +feast or wake held; and, on the Sunday, all the parishioners came to +church from far and near. Frequently, too, in the course of the +year, Sylvia would accompany one or other of her parents to Scarby +Moorside afternoon service,--when the hay was got in, and the corn +not ready for cutting, or the cows were dry and there was no +afternoon milking. Many clergymen were languid in those days, and +did not too curiously inquire into the reasons which gave them such +small congregations in country parishes. + +Now she was married, this weekly church-going which Philip seemed to +expect from her, became a tie and a small hardship, which connected +itself with her life of respectability and prosperity. 'A crust of +bread and liberty' was much more accordant to Sylvia's nature than +plenty of creature comforts and many restraints. Another wish of +Philip's, against which she said no word, but constantly rebelled in +thought and deed, was his desire that the servant he had engaged +during the time of her illness to take charge of the baby, should +always carry it whenever it was taken out for a walk. Sylvia often +felt, now she was strong, as if she would far rather have been +without the responsibility of having this nursemaid, of whom she +was, in reality, rather afraid. The good side of it was that it set +her at liberty to attend to her mother at times when she would have +been otherwise occupied with her baby; but Bell required very little +from any one: she was easily pleased, unexacting, and methodical +even in her dotage; preserving the quiet, undemonstrative habits of +her earlier life now that the faculty of reason, which had been at +the basis of the formation of such habits, was gone. She took great +delight in watching the baby, and was pleased to have it in her care +for a short time; but she dozed so much that it prevented her having +any strong wish on the subject. + +So Sylvia contrived to get her baby as much as possible to herself, +in spite of the nursemaid; and, above all, she would carry it out, +softly cradled in her arms, warm pillowed on her breast, and bear it +to the freedom and solitude of the sea-shore on the west side of the +town where the cliffs were not so high, and there was a good space +of sand and shingle at all low tides. + +Once here, she was as happy as she ever expected to be in this +world. The fresh sea-breeze restored something of the colour of +former days to her cheeks, the old buoyancy to her spirits; here she +might talk her heart-full of loving nonsense to her baby; here it +was all her own; no father to share in it, no nursemaid to dispute +the wisdom of anything she did with it. She sang to it, she tossed +it; it crowed and it laughed back again, till both were weary; and +then she would sit down on a broken piece of rock, and fall to +gazing on the advancing waves catching the sunlight on their crests, +advancing, receding, for ever and for ever, as they had done all her +life long--as they did when she had walked with them that once by +the side of Kinraid; those cruel waves that, forgetful of the happy +lovers' talk by the side of their waters, had carried one away, and +drowned him deep till he was dead. Every time she sate down to look +at the sea, this process of thought was gone through up to this +point; the next step would, she knew, bring her to the question she +dared not, must not ask. He was dead; he must be dead; for was she +not Philip's wife? Then came up the recollection of Philip's speech, +never forgotten, only buried out of sight: 'What kind of a woman are +yo' to go on dreaming of another man, and yo' a wedded wife?' She +used to shudder as if cold steel had been plunged into her warm, +living body as she remembered these words; cruel words, harmlessly +provoked. They were too much associated with physical pains to be +dwelt upon; only their memory was always there. She paid for these +happy rambles with her baby by the depression which awaited her on +her re-entrance into the dark, confined house that was her home; its +very fulness of comfort was an oppression. Then, when her husband +saw her pale and fatigued, he was annoyed, and sometimes upbraided +her for doing what was so unnecessary as to load herself with her +child. She knew full well it was not that that caused her weariness. +By-and-by, when he inquired and discovered that all these walks were +taken in one direction, out towards the sea, he grew jealous of her +love for the inanimate ocean. Was it connected in her mind with the +thought of Kinraid? Why did she so perseveringly, in wind or cold, +go out to the sea-shore; the western side, too, where, if she went +but far enough, she would come upon the mouth of the Haytersbank +gully, the point at which she had last seen Kinraid? Such fancies +haunted Philip's mind for hours after she had acknowledged the +direction of her walks. But he never said a word that could +distinctly tell her he disliked her going to the sea, otherwise she +would have obeyed him in this, as in everything else; for absolute +obedience to her husband seemed to be her rule of life at this +period--obedience to him who would so gladly have obeyed her +smallest wish had she but expressed it! She never knew that Philip +had any painful association with the particular point on the +sea-shore that she instinctively avoided, both from a consciousness +of wifely duty, and also because the sight of it brought up so much +sharp pain. + +Philip used to wonder if the dream that preceded her illness was the +suggestive cause that drew her so often to the shore. Her illness +consequent upon that dream had filled his mind, so that for many +months he himself had had no haunting vision of Kinraid to disturb +his slumbers. But now the old dream of Kinraid's actual presence by +Philip's bedside began to return with fearful vividness. Night after +night it recurred; each time with some new touch of reality, and +close approach; till it was as if the fate that overtakes all men +were then, even then, knocking at his door. + +In his business Philip prospered. Men praised him because he did +well to himself. He had the perseverance, the capability for +head-work and calculation, the steadiness and general forethought +which might have made him a great merchant if he had lived in a +large city. Without any effort of his own, almost, too, without +Coulson's being aware of it, Philip was now in the position of +superior partner; the one to suggest and arrange, while Coulson only +carried out the plans that emanated from Philip. The whole work of +life was suited to the man: he did not aspire to any different +position, only to the full development of the capabilities of that +which he already held. He had originated several fresh schemes with +regard to the traffic of the shop; and his old masters, with all +their love of tried ways, and distrust of everything new, had been +candid enough to confess that their successors' plans had resulted +in success. 'Their successors.' Philip was content with having the +power when the exercise of it was required, and never named his own +important share in the new improvements. Possibly, if he had, +Coulson's vanity might have taken the alarm, and he might not have +been so acquiescent for the future. As it was, he forgot his own +subordinate share, and always used the imperial 'we', 'we thought', +'it struck us,' &c. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +RESCUED FROM THE WAVES + + + + + +Meanwhile Hester came and went as usual; in so quiet and methodical +a way, with so even and undisturbed a temper, that she was almost +forgotten when everything went well in the shop or household. She +was a star, the brightness of which was only recognized in times of +darkness. She herself was almost surprised at her own increasing +regard for Sylvia. She had not thought she should ever be able to +love the woman who had been such a laggard in acknowledging Philip's +merits; and from all she had ever heard of Sylvia before she came to +know her, from the angry words with which Sylvia had received her +when she had first gone to Haytersbank Farm, Hester had intended to +remain on friendly terms, but to avoid intimacy. But her kindness to +Bell Robson had won both the mother's and daughter's hearts; and in +spite of herself, certainly against her own mother's advice, she had +become the familiar friend and welcome guest of the household. + +Now the very change in Sylvia's whole manner and ways, which grieved +and vexed Philip, made his wife the more attractive to Hester. +Brought up among Quakers, although not one herself, she admired and +respected the staidness and outward peacefulness common amongst the +young women of that sect. Sylvia, whom she had expected to find +volatile, talkative, vain, and wilful, was quiet and still, as if +she had been born a Friend: she seemed to have no will of her own; +she served her mother and child for love; she obeyed her husband in +all things, and never appeared to pine after gaiety or pleasure. And +yet at times Hester thought, or rather a flash came across her mind, +as if all things were not as right as they seemed. Philip looked +older, more care-worn; nay, even Hester was obliged to allow to +herself that she had heard him speak to his wife in sharp, aggrieved +tones. Innocent Hester! she could not understand how the very +qualities she so admired in Sylvia were just what were so foreign to +her nature that the husband, who had known her from a child, felt +what an unnatural restraint she was putting upon herself, and would +have hailed petulant words or wilful actions with an unspeakable +thankfulness for relief. + +One day--it was in the spring of 1798--Hester was engaged to stay to +tea with the Hepburns, in order that after that early meal she might +set to again in helping Philip and Coulson to pack away the winter +cloths and flannels, for which there was no longer any use. The +tea-time was half-past four; about four o'clock a heavy April shower +came on, the hail pattering against the window-panes so as to awaken +Mrs. Robson from her afternoon's nap. She came down the corkscrew +stairs, and found Phoebe in the parlour arranging the tea-things. + +Phoebe and Mrs. Robson were better friends than Phoebe and her young +mistress; and so they began to talk a little together in a +comfortable, familiar way. Once or twice Philip looked in, as if he +would be glad to see the tea-table in readiness; and then Phoebe +would put on a spurt of busy bustle, which ceased almost as soon as +his back was turned, so eager was she to obtain Mrs. Robson's +sympathy in some little dispute that had occurred between her and +the nurse-maid. The latter had misappropriated some hot water, +prepared and required by Phoebe, to the washing of the baby's +clothes; it was a long story, and would have tired the patience of +any one in full possession of their senses; but the details were +just within poor Bell's comprehension, and she was listening with +the greatest sympathy. Both the women were unaware of the lapse of +time; but it was of consequence to Philip, as the extra labour was +not to be begun until after tea, and the daylight hours were +precious. + +At a quarter to five Hester and he came in, and then Phoebe began to +hurry. Hester went up to sit by Bell and talk to her. Philip spoke +to Phoebe in the familiar words of country-folk. Indeed, until his +marriage, Phoebe had always called him by his Christian name, and +had found it very difficult to change it into 'master.' + +'Where's Sylvie?' said he. + +'Gone out wi' t' babby,' replied Phoebe. + +'Why can't Nancy carry it out?' asked Philip. + +It was touching on the old grievance: he was tired, and he spoke +with sharp annoyance. Phoebe might easily have told him the real +state of the case; Nancy was busy at her washing, which would have +been reason enough. But the nursemaid had vexed her, and she did not +like Philip's sharpness, so she only said,-- + +'It's noane o' my business; it's yo' t' look after yo'r own wife and +child; but yo'r but a lad after a'.' + +This was not conciliatory speech, and just put the last stroke to +Philip's fit of ill-temper. + +'I'm not for my tea to-night,' said he, to Hester, when all was +ready. 'Sylvie's not here, and nothing is nice, or as it should be. +I'll go and set to on t' stock-taking. Don't yo' hurry, Hester; stop +and chat a bit with th' old lady.' + +'Nay, Philip,' said Hester, 'thou's sadly tired; just take this cup +o' tea; Sylvia 'll be grieved if yo' haven't something.' + +'Sylvia doesn't care whether I'm full or fasting,' replied he, +impatiently putting aside the cup. 'If she did she'd ha' taken care +to be in, and ha' seen to things being as I like them.' + +Now in general Philip was the least particular of men about meals; +and to do Sylvia justice, she was scrupulously attentive to every +household duty in which old Phoebe would allow her to meddle, and +always careful to see after her husband's comforts. But Philip was +too vexed at her absence to perceive the injustice of what he was +saying, nor was he aware how Bell Robson had been attending to what +he said. But she was sadly discomfited by it, understanding just +enough of the grievance in hand to think that her daughter was +neglectful of those duties which she herself had always regarded as +paramount to all others; nor could Hester convince her that Philip +had not meant what he said; neither could she turn the poor old +woman's thoughts from the words which had caused her distress. + +Presently Sylvia came in, bright and cheerful, although breathless +with hurry. + +'Oh,' said she, taking off her wet shawl, 'we've had to shelter from +such a storm of rain, baby and me--but see! she's none the worse for +it, as bonny as iver, bless her.' + +Hester began some speech of admiration for the child in order to +prevent Bell from delivering the lecture she felt sure was coming +down on the unsuspecting Sylvia; but all in vain. + +'Philip's been complaining on thee, Sylvie,' said Bell, in the way +in which she had spoken to her daughter when she was a little child; +grave and severe in tone and look, more than in words. 'I forget +justly what about, but he spoke on thy neglecting him continual. +It's not right, my lass, it's not right; a woman should--but my +head's very tired, and all I can think on to say is, it's not +right.' + +'Philip been complaining of me, and to mother!' said Sylvia, ready +to burst into tears, so grieved and angry was she. + +'No!' said Hester, 'thy mother has taken it a little too strong; he +were vexed like at his tea not being ready.' + +Sylvia said no more, but the bright colour faded from her cheek, and +the contraction of care returned to her brow. She occupied herself +with taking off her baby's walking things. Hester lingered, anxious +to soothe and make peace; she was looking sorrowfully at Sylvia, +when she saw tears dropping on the baby's cloak, and then it seemed +as if she must speak a word of comfort before going to the +shop-work, where she knew she was expected by both Philip and +Coulson. She poured out a cup of tea, and coming close up to Sylvia, +and kneeling down by her, she whispered,-- + +'Just take him this into t' ware-room; it'll put all to rights if +thou'll take it to him wi' thy own hands.' + +Sylvia looked up, and Hester then more fully saw how she had been +crying. She whispered in reply, for fear of disturbing her mother,-- + +'I don't mind anything but his speaking ill on me to mother. I know +I'm for iver trying and trying to be a good wife to him, an' it's +very dull work; harder than yo' think on, Hester,--an' I would ha' +been home for tea to-night only I was afeared of baby getting wet +wi' t' storm o' hail as we had down on t' shore; and we sheltered +under a rock. It's a weary coming home to this dark place, and to +find my own mother set against me.' + +'Take him his tea, like a good lassie. I'll answer for it he'll be +all right. A man takes it hardly when he comes in tired, a-thinking +his wife '11 be there to cheer him up a bit, to find her off, and +niver know nought of t' reason why.' + +'I'm glad enough I've getten a baby,' said Sylvia, 'but for aught +else I wish I'd niver been married, I do!' + +'Hush thee, lass!' said Hester, rising up indignant; 'now that is a +sin. Eh! if thou only knew the lot o' some folk. But let's talk no +more on that, that cannot be helped; go, take him his tea, for it's +a sad thing to think on him fasting all this time.' + +Hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her change of +position; and the word fasting caught Mrs. Robson's ear, as she sate +at her knitting by the chimney-corner. + +'Fasting? he said thou didn't care if he were full or fasting. +Lassie! it's not right in thee, I say; go, take him his tea at +once.' + +Sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had been suckling, to +Nancy, who having done her washing, had come for her charge, to put +it to bed. Sylvia kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad, +passionate tenderness as she did so. Then she took the cup of tea; +but she said, rather defiantly, to Hester,-- + +'I'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it'll ease her +mind.' + +Then louder to her mother, she added,-- + +'Mother, I'll take him his tea, though I couldn't help the being +out.' + +If the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she was +going to do it was the reverse. Hester followed her slowly into the +ware-room, with intentional delay, thinking that her presence might +be an obstacle to their mutually understanding one another. Sylvia +held the cup and plate of bread and butter out to Philip, but +avoided meeting his eye, and said not a word of explanation, or +regret, or self-justification. If she had spoken, though ever so +crossly, Philip would have been relieved, and would have preferred +it to her silence. He wanted to provoke her to speech, but did not +know how to begin. + +'Thou's been out again wandering on that sea-shore!' said he. She +did not answer him. 'I cannot think what's always taking thee there, +when one would ha' thought a walk up to Esdale would be far more +sheltered, both for thee and baby in such weather as this. Thou'll +be having that baby ill some of these days.' + +At this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved as though she were +going to say something. Oh, how he wished she would, that they might +come to a wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again, and a +tender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence for all his +hasty words, or unreasonable vexation. But she had come resolved not +to speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much emotion. +Only as she was going away she turned and said,-- + +'Philip, mother hasn't many more years to live; dunnot grieve her, +and set her again' me by finding fault wi' me afore her. Our being +wed were a great mistake; but before t' poor old widow woman let us +make as if we were happy.' + +'Sylvie! Sylvie!' he called after her. She must have heard, but she +did not turn. He went after her, and seized her by the arm rather +roughly; she had stung him to the heart with her calm words, which +seemed to reveal a long-formed conviction. + +'Sylvie!' said he, almost fiercely, 'what do yo' mean by what you've +said? Speak! I will have an answer.' + +He almost shook her: she was half frightened by his vehemence of +behaviour, which she took for pure anger, while it was the outburst +of agonized and unrequited love. + +'Let me go! Oh, Philip, yo' hurt me!' + +Just at this moment Hester came up; Philip was ashamed of his +passionate ways in her serene presence, and loosened his grasp of +his wife, and she ran away; ran into her mother's empty room, as to +a solitary place, and there burst into that sobbing, miserable +crying which we instinctively know is too surely lessening the +length of our days on earth to be indulged in often. + +When she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak and quiet for a +time, she listened in dreading expectation of the sound of his +footstep coming in search of her to make friends. But he was +detained below on business, and never came. Instead, her mother came +clambering up the stairs; she was now in the habit of going to bed +between seven and eight, and to-night she was retiring at even an +earlier hour. + +Sylvia sprang up and drew down the window-blind, and made her face +and manner as composed as possible, in order to soothe and comfort +her mother's last waking hours. She helped her to bed with gentle +patience; the restraint imposed upon her by her tender filial love +was good for her, though all the time she was longing to be alone to +have another wild outburst. When her mother was going off to sleep, +Sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. Then she +gazed out at the evening sky, high above the tiled roofs of the +opposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peaceful +heavens took possession of her once more. + +'It's my only comfort,' said she to herself; 'and there's no earthly +harm in it. I would ha' been at home to his tea, if I could; but +when he doesn't want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby is +either in my arms or asleep; why, I'll go any cry my fill out under +yon great quiet sky. I cannot stay in t' house to be choked up wi' +my tears, nor yet to have him coming about me either for scolding or +peace-making.' + +So she put on her things and went out again; this time along the +High Street, and up the long flights of steps towards the parish +church, and there she stood and thought that here she had first met +Kinraid, at Darley's burying, and she tried to recall the very look +of all the sad, earnest faces round the open grave--the whole scene, +in fact; and let herself give way to the miserable regrets she had +so often tried to control. Then she walked on, crying bitterly, +almost unawares to herself; on through the high, bleak fields at the +summit of the cliffs; fields bounded by loose stone fences, and far +from all sight of the habitation of man. But, below, the sea rose +and raged; it was high water at the highest tide, and the wind blew +gustily from the land, vainly combating the great waves that came +invincibly up with a roar and an impotent furious dash against the +base of the cliffs below. + +Sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and rebound of many +waters, like the shock of mighty guns, whenever the other sound of +the blustering gusty wind was lulled for an instant. She was more +quieted by this tempest of the elements than she would have been had +all nature seemed as still as she had imagined it to be while she +was yet in-doors and only saw a part of the serene sky. + +She fixed on a certain point, in her own mind, which she would +reach, and then turn back again. It was where the outline of the +land curved inwards, dipping into a little bay. Here the field-path +she had hitherto followed descended somewhat abruptly to a cluster +of fishermen's cottages, hardly large enough to be called a village; +and then the narrow roadway wound up the rising ground till it again +reached the summit of the cliffs that stretched along the coast for +many and many a mile. + +Sylvia said to herself that she would turn homewards when she came +within sight of this cove,--Headlington Cove, they called it. All +the way along she had met no one since she had left the town, but +just as she had got over the last stile, or ladder of +stepping-stones, into the field from which the path descended, she +came upon a number of people--quite a crowd, in fact; men moving +forward in a steady line, hauling at a rope, a chain, or something +of that kind; boys, children, and women holding babies in their +arms, as if all were fain to come out and partake in some general +interest. + +They kept within a certain distance from the edge of the cliff, and +Sylvia, advancing a little, now saw the reason why. The great cable +the men held was attached to some part of a smack, which could now +be seen by her in the waters below, half dismantled, and all but a +wreck, yet with her deck covered with living men, as far as the +waning light would allow her to see. The vessel strained to get free +of the strong guiding cable; the tide was turning, the wind was +blowing off shore, and Sylvia knew without being told, that almost +parallel to this was a line of sunken rocks that had been fatal to +many a ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner channel +instead of keeping out to sea for miles, and then steering in +straight for Monkshaven port. And the ships that had been thus lost +had been in good plight and order compared to this vessel, which +seemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail. + +By this time, the crowd--the fishermen from the hamlet down below, +with their wives and children--all had come but the bedridden--had +reached the place where Sylvia stood. The women, in a state of wild +excitement, rushed on, encouraging their husbands and sons by words, +even while they hindered them by actions; and, from time to time, +one of them would run to the edge of the cliff and shout out some +brave words of hope in her shrill voice to the crew on the deck +below. Whether these latter heard it or not, no one could tell; but +it seemed as if all human voice must be lost in the tempestuous stun +and tumult of wind and wave. It was generally a woman with a child +in her arms who so employed herself. As the strain upon the cable +became greater, and the ground on which they strove more uneven, +every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women who were +unencumbered held by the dear rope on which so many lives were +depending. On they came, a long line of human beings, black against +the ruddy sunset sky. As they came near Sylvia, a woman cried out,-- + +'Dunnot stand idle, lass, but houd on wi' us; there's many a bonny +life at stake, and many a mother's heart a-hangin' on this bit o' +hemp. Tak' houd, lass, and give a firm grip, and God remember thee +i' thy need.' + +Sylvia needed no second word; a place was made for her, and in an +instant more the rope was pulling against her hands till it seemed +as though she was holding fire in her bare palms. Never a one of +them thought of letting go for an instant, though when all was over +many of their hands were raw and bleeding. Some strong, experienced +fishermen passed a word along the line from time to time, giving +directions as to how it should be held according to varying +occasions; but few among the rest had breath or strength enough to +speak. The women and children that accompanied them ran on before, +breaking down the loose stone fences, so as to obviate delay or +hindrance; they talked continually, exhorting, encouraging, +explaining. From their many words and fragmentary sentences, Sylvia +learnt that the vessel was supposed to be a Newcastle smack sailing +from London, that had taken the dangerous inner channel to save +time, and had been caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to +withstand; and that if by some daring contrivance of the fishermen +who had first seen her the cable had not been got ashore, she would +have been cast upon the rocks before this, and 'all on board +perished'. + +'It were dayleet then,' quoth one woman; 'a could see their faces, +they were so near. They were as pale as dead men, an' one was +prayin' down on his knees. There was a king's officer aboard, for I +saw t' gowd about him.' + +'He'd maybe come from these hom'ard parts, and be comin' to see his +own folk; else it's no common for king's officers to sail in aught +but king's ships.' + +'Eh! but it's gettin' dark! See there's t' leeghts in t' houses in +t' New Town! T' grass is crispin' wi' t' white frost under out feet. +It'll be a hard tug round t' point, and then she'll be gettin' into +still waters.' + +One more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was past; the +vessel--or what remained of her--was in the harbour, among the +lights and cheerful sounds of safety. The fishermen sprang down the +cliff to the quay-side, anxious to see the men whose lives they had +saved; the women, weary and over-excited, began to cry. Not Sylvia, +however; her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day: +her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that they +were saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before. + +She would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands with +them all round. But instead she must go home, and well would it be +with her if she was in time for her husband's supper, and escaped +any notice of her absence. So she separated herself from the groups +of women who sate on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the +return of such of their husbands as could resist the fascinations of +the Monkshaven public houses. As Sylvia went down the church steps, +she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vessel +into port. + +'There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenant +as had comed as passenger. It were a good job as we could manage +her. Good-neet to thee, thou'll sleep all t' sounder for havin' lent +a hand.' + +The street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of +the heights above; the decent shops and houses had all their +shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time. +Already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and +Sylvia scarcely met any one. + +She went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by the +private door. All was still; the basins of bread and milk that she +and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the +fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. Nancy had gone +to bed, Phoebe dozed in the kitchen; Philip was still in the +ware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for +Hester had gone home to her mother. + +Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip, after the manner +in which they had parted. All the despondency of her life became +present to her again as she sate down within her home. She had +forgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came back +again. + +Still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. She took her basin +up, and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her baby +upstairs, and ran away to attend to it. When it had been fed and +hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted by +some unusual noise in her room. + +She found Mrs. Robson awake, and restless, and ailing; dwelling much +on what Philip had said in his anger against Sylvia. It was really +necessary for her daughter to remain with her; so Sylvia stole out, +and went quickly down-stairs to Philip--now sitting tired and worn +out, and eating his supper with little or no appetite--and told him +she meant to pass the night with her mother. + +His answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so it +seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she had +done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of her +mother's indisposition. + +As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down his half-finished +basin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face hidden in his +folded arms. The wick of the candle grew long and black, and fell, +and sputtered, and guttered; he sate on, unheeding either it or the +pale gray fire that was dying out--dead at last. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +AN APPARITION + + + + + +Mrs. Robson was very poorly all night long. Uneasy thoughts seemed +to haunt and perplex her brain, and she neither slept nor woke, but +was restless and uneasy in her talk and movements. + +Sylvia lay down by her, but got so little sleep, that at length she +preferred sitting in the easy-chair by the bedside. Here she dropped +off to slumber in spite of herself; the scene of the evening before +seemed to be repeated; the cries of the many people, the heavy roar +and dash of the threatening waves, were repeated in her ears; and +something was said to her through all the conflicting noises,--what +it was she could not catch, though she strained to hear the hoarse +murmur that, in her dream, she believed to convey a meaning of the +utmost importance to her. + +This dream, that mysterious, only half-intelligible sound, recurred +whenever she dozed, and her inability to hear the words uttered +distressed her so much, that at length she sate bolt upright, +resolved to sleep no more. Her mother was talking in a +half-conscious way; Philip's speech of the evening before was +evidently running in her mind. + +'Sylvie, if thou're not a good wife to him, it'll just break my +heart outright. A woman should obey her husband, and not go her own +gait. I never leave the house wi'out telling father, and getting his +leave.' + +And then she began to cry pitifully, and to say unconnected things, +till Sylvia, to soothe her, took her hand, and promised never to +leave the house without asking her husband's permission, though in +making this promise, she felt as if she were sacrificing her last +pleasure to her mother's wish; for she knew well enough that Philip +would always raise objections to the rambles which reminded her of +her old free open-air life. + +But to comfort and cherish her mother she would have done anything; +yet this very morning that was dawning, she must go and ask his +permission for a simple errand, or break her word. + +She knew from experience that nothing quieted her mother so well as +balm-tea; it might be that the herb really possessed some sedative +power; it might be only early faith, and often repeated experience, +but it had always had a tranquillizing effect; and more than once, +during the restless hours of the night, Mrs. Robson had asked for it; +but Sylvia's stock of last year's dead leaves was exhausted. Still +she knew where a plant of balm grew in the sheltered corner of +Haytersbank Farm garden; she knew that the tenants who had succeeded +them in the occupation of the farm had had to leave it in +consequence of a death, and that the place was unoccupied; and in +the darkness she had planned that if she could leave her mother +after the dawn came, and she had attended to her baby, she would +walk quickly to the old garden, and gather the tender sprigs which +she was sure to find there. + +Now she must go and ask Philip; and till she held her baby to her +breast, she bitterly wished that she were free from the duties and +chains of matrimony. But the touch of its waxen fingers, the hold of +its little mouth, made her relax into docility and gentleness. She +gave it back to Nancy to be dressed, and softly opened the door of +Philip's bed-room. + +'Philip!' said she, gently. 'Philip!' + +He started up from dreams of her; of her, angry. He saw her there, +rather pale with her night's watch and anxiety, but looking meek, +and a little beseeching. + +'Mother has had such a bad night! she fancied once as some balm-tea +would do her good--it allays used to: but my dried balm is all gone, +and I thought there'd be sure to be some in t' old garden at +Haytersbank. Feyther planted a bush just for mother, wheere it +allays came up early, nigh t' old elder-tree; and if yo'd not mind, +I could run theere while she sleeps, and be back again in an hour, +and it's not seven now.' + +'Thou's not wear thyself out with running, Sylvie,' said Philip, +eagerly; 'I'll get up and go myself, or, perhaps,' continued he, +catching the shadow that was coming over her face, 'thou'd rather go +thyself: it's only that I'm so afraid of thy tiring thyself.' + +'It'll not tire me,' said Sylvia. 'Afore I was married, I was out +often far farther than that, afield to fetch up t' kine, before my +breakfast.' + +'Well, go if thou will,' said Philip. 'But get somewhat to eat +first, and don't hurry; there's no need for that.' + +She had got her hat and shawl, and was off before he had finished +his last words. + +The long High Street was almost empty of people at that early hour; +one side was entirely covered by the cool morning shadow which lay +on the pavement, and crept up the opposite houses till only the +topmost story caught the rosy sunlight. Up the hill-road, through +the gap in the stone wall, across the dewy fields, Sylvia went by +the very shortest path she knew. + +She had only once been at Haytersbank since her wedding-day. On that +occasion the place had seemed strangely and dissonantly changed by +the numerous children who were diverting themselves before the open +door, and whose playthings and clothes strewed the house-place, and +made it one busy scene of confusion and untidiness, more like the +Corneys' kitchen in former times, than her mother's orderly and +quiet abode. Those little children were fatherless now; and the +house was shut up, awaiting the entry of some new tenant. There were +no shutters to shut; the long low window was blinking in the rays of +the morning sun; the house and cow-house doors were closed, and no +poultry wandered about the field in search of stray grains of corn, +or early worms. It was a strange and unfamiliar silence, and struck +solemnly on Sylvia's mind. Only a thrush in the old orchard down in +the hollow, out of sight, whistled and gurgled with continual shrill +melody. + +Sylvia went slowly past the house and down the path leading to the +wild, deserted bit of garden. She saw that the last tenants had had +a pump sunk for them, and resented the innovation, as though the +well she was passing could feel the insult. Over it grew two +hawthorn trees; on the bent trunk of one of them she used to sit, +long ago: the charm of the position being enhanced by the possible +danger of falling into the well and being drowned. The rusty unused +chain was wound round the windlass; the bucket was falling to pieces +from dryness. A lean cat came from some outhouse, and mewed +pitifully with hunger; accompanying Sylvia to the garden, as if glad +of some human companionship, yet refusing to allow itself to be +touched. Primroses grew in the sheltered places, just as they +formerly did; and made the uncultivated ground seem less deserted +than the garden, where the last year's weeds were rotting away, and +cumbering the ground. + +Sylvia forced her way through the berry bushes to the herb-plot, and +plucked the tender leaves she had come to seek; sighing a little all +the time. Then she retraced her steps; paused softly before the +house-door, and entered the porch and kissed the senseless wood. + +She tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her arms, meaning to +carry it home and befriend it; but it was scared by her endeavour +and ran back to its home in the outhouse, making a green path across +the white dew of the meadow. Then Sylvia began to hasten home, +thinking, and remembering--at the stile that led into the road she +was brought short up. + +Some one stood in the lane just on the other side of the gap; his +back was to the morning sun; all she saw at first was the uniform of +a naval officer, so well known in Monkshaven in those days. + +Sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, although her +clothes almost brushed his, as he stood there still. She had not +gone a yard--no, not half a yard--when her heart leaped up and fell +again dead within her, as if she had been shot. + +'Sylvia!' he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and passionate +love. 'Sylvia!' + +She looked round; he had turned a little, so that the light fell +straight on his face. It was bronzed, and the lines were +strengthened; but it was the same face she had last seen in +Haytersbank Gully three long years ago, and had never thought to see +in life again. + +He was close to her and held out his fond arms; she went fluttering +towards their embrace, as if drawn by the old fascination; but when +she felt them close round her, she started away, and cried out with +a great pitiful shriek, and put her hands up to her forehead as if +trying to clear away some bewildering mist. + +Then she looked at him once more, a terrible story in her eyes, if +he could but have read it. + +Twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice the words were +overwhelmed by the surges of her misery, which bore them back into +the depths of her heart. + +He thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, and he attempted +to soothe her with soft murmurs of love, and to woo her to his +outstretched hungry arms once more. But when she saw this motion of +his, she made a gesture as though pushing him away; and with an +inarticulate moan of agony she put her hands to her head once more, +and turning away began to run blindly towards the town for +protection. + +For a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at her behaviour; +and then he thought it accounted for by the shock of his accost, and +that she needed time to understand the unexpected joy. So he +followed her swiftly, ever keeping her in view, but not trying to +overtake her too speedily. + +'I have frightened my poor love,' he kept thinking. And by this +thought he tried to repress his impatience and check the speed he +longed to use; yet he was always so near behind that her quickened +sense heard his well-known footsteps following, and a mad notion +flashed across her brain that she would go to the wide full river, +and end the hopeless misery she felt enshrouding her. There was a +sure hiding-place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe +beneath the rushing waters borne landwards by the morning tide. + +No one can tell what changed her course; perhaps the thought of her +sucking child; perhaps her mother; perhaps an angel of God; no one +on earth knows, but as she ran along the quay-side she all at once +turned up an entry, and through an open door. + +He, following all the time, came into a quiet dark parlour, with a +cloth and tea-things on the table ready for breakfast; the change +from the bright sunny air out of doors to the deep shadow of this +room made him think for the first moment that she had passed on, and +that no one was there, and he stood for an instant baffled, and +hearing no sound but the beating of his own heart; but an +irrepressible sobbing gasp made him look round, and there he saw her +cowered behind the door, her face covered tight up, and sharp +shudders going through her whole frame. + +'My love, my darling!' said he, going up to her, and trying to raise +her, and to loosen her hands away from her face. 'I've been too +sudden for thee: it was thoughtless in me; but I have so looked +forward to this time, and seeing thee come along the field, and go +past me, but I should ha' been more tender and careful of thee. Nay! +let me have another look of thy sweet face.' + +All this he whispered in the old tones of manoeuvring love, in that +voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life, and had not +heard, for all her longing, save in her dreams. + +She tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into the hidden +shadow--to sink into the ground out of sight. + +Once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face, to let him +hear her speak. + +But she only moaned. + +'Sylvia!' said he, thinking he could change his tactics, and pique +her into speaking, that he would make a pretence of suspicion and +offence. + +'Sylvia! one would think you weren't glad to see me back again at +length. I only came in late last night, and my first thought on +wakening was of you; it has been ever since I left you.' + +Sylvia took her hands away from her face; it was gray as the face of +death; her awful eyes were passionless in her despair. + +'Where have yo' been?' she asked, in slow, hoarse tones, as if her +voice were half strangled within her. + +'Been!' said he, a red light coming into his eyes, as he bent his +looks upon her; now, indeed, a true and not an assumed suspicion +entering his mind. + +'Been!' he repeated; then, coming a step nearer to her, and taking +her hand, not tenderly this time, but with a resolution to be +satisfied. + +'Did not your cousin--Hepburn, I mean--did not he tell you?--he saw +the press-gang seize me,--I gave him a message to you--I bade you +keep true to me as I would be to you.' + +Between every clause of this speech he paused and gasped for her +answer; but none came. Her eyes dilated and held his steady gaze +prisoner as with a magical charm--neither could look away from the +other's wild, searching gaze. When he had ended, she was silent for +a moment, then she cried out, shrill and fierce,-- + +'Philip!' No answer. + +Wilder and shriller still, 'Philip!' she cried. + +He was in the distant ware-room completing the last night's work +before the regular shop hours began; before breakfast, also, that +his wife might not find him waiting and impatient. + +He heard her cry; it cut through doors, and still air, and great +bales of woollen stuff; he thought that she had hurt herself, that +her mother was worse, that her baby was ill, and he hastened to the +spot whence the cry proceeded. + +On opening the door that separated the shop from the sitting-room, +he saw the back of a naval officer, and his wife on the ground, +huddled up in a heap; when she perceived him come in, she dragged +herself up by means of a chair, groping like a blind person, and +came and stood facing him. + +The officer turned fiercely round, and would have come towards +Philip, who was so bewildered by the scene that even yet he did not +understand who the stranger was, did not perceive for an instant +that he saw the realization of his greatest dread. + +But Sylvia laid her hand on Kinraid's arm, and assumed to herself +the right of speech. Philip did not know her voice, it was so +changed. + +'Philip,' she said, 'this is Kinraid come back again to wed me. He +is alive; he has niver been dead, only taken by t' press-gang. And +he says yo' saw it, and knew it all t' time. Speak, was it so?' + +Philip knew not what to say, whither to turn, under what refuge of +words or acts to shelter. + +Sylvia's influence was keeping Kinraid silent, but he was rapidly +passing beyond it. + +'Speak!' he cried, loosening himself from Sylvia's light grasp, and +coming towards Philip, with a threatening gesture. 'Did I not bid +you tell her how it was? Did I not bid you say how I would be +faithful to her, and she was to be faithful to me? Oh! you damned +scoundrel! have you kept it from her all that time, and let her +think me dead, or false? Take that!' + +His closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his head with +bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach; but Sylvia came swift +between the blow and its victim. + +'Charley, thou shan't strike him,' she said. 'He is a damned +scoundrel' (this was said in the hardest, quietest tone) 'but he is +my husband.' + +'Oh! thou false heart!' exclaimed Kinraid, turning sharp on her. 'If +ever I trusted woman, I trusted you, Sylvia Robson.' + +He made as though throwing her from him, with a gesture of contempt +that stung her to life. + +'Oh, Charley!' she cried, springing to him, 'dunnot cut me to the +quick; have pity on me, though he had none. I did so love thee; it +was my very heart-strings as gave way when they told me thou was +drowned--feyther, and th' Corneys, and all, iverybody. Thy hat and +t' bit o' ribbon I gave thee were found drenched and dripping wi' +sea-water; and I went mourning for thee all the day long--dunnot +turn away from me; only hearken this once, and then kill me dead, +and I'll bless yo',--and have niver been mysel' since; niver ceased +to feel t' sun grow dark and th' air chill and dreary when I thought +on t' time when thou was alive. I did, my Charley, my own love! And +I thought thou was dead for iver, and I wished I were lying beside +thee. Oh, Charley! Philip, theere, where he stands, could tell yo' +this was true. Philip, wasn't it so?' + +'Would God I were dead!' moaned forth the unhappy, guilty man. But +she had turned to Kinraid, and was speaking again to him, and +neither of them heard or heeded him--they were drawing closer and +closer together--she, with her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking +eagerly. + +'And feyther was taken up, and all for setting some free as t' +press-gang had gotten by a foul trick; and he were put i' York +prison, and tried, and hung!--hung! Charley!--good kind feyther was +hung on a gallows; and mother lost her sense and grew silly in +grief, and we were like to be turned out on t' wide world, and poor +mother dateless--and I thought yo' were dead--oh! I thought yo' were +dead, I did--oh, Charley, Charley!' + +By this time they were in each other's arms, she with her head on +his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break. + +Philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her away; but +Charley held her tight, mutely defying Philip. Unconsciously she was +Philip's protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might +have been his death if strong will could have aided it to kill. + +'Sylvie!' said he, grasping her tight. 'Listen to me. He didn't love +yo' as I did. He had loved other women. I, yo'--yo' alone. He loved +other girls before yo', and had left off loving 'em. I--I wish God +would free my heart from the pang; but it will go on till I die, +whether yo' love me or not. And then--where was I? Oh! that very +night that he was taken, I was a-thinking on yo' and on him; and I +might ha' given yo' his message, but I heard them speaking of him as +knew him well; talking of his false fickle ways. How was I to know +he would keep true to thee? It might be a sin in me, I cannot say; +my heart and my sense are gone dead within me. I know this, I've +loved yo' as no man but me ever loved before. Have some pity and +forgiveness on me, if it's only because I've been so tormented with +my love.' + +He looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it faded away into +despair as she made no sign of having even heard his words. He let +go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side. + +'I may die,' he said, 'for my life is ended!' + +'Sylvia!' spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent, 'your marriage is no +marriage. You were tricked into it. You are my wife, not his. I am +your husband; we plighted each other our troth. See! here is my half +of the sixpence.' + +He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his +neck. + +'When they stripped me and searched me in th' French prison, I +managed to keep this. No lies can break the oath we swore to each +other. I can get your pretence of a marriage set aside. I'm in +favour with my admiral, and he'll do a deal for me, and back me out. +Come with me; your marriage shall be set aside, and we'll be married +again, all square and above-board. Come away. Leave that damned +fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest sailor; we'll be +true, whatever has come and gone. Come, Sylvia.' + +His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the +door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. Just then the +baby cried. + +'Hark!' said she, starting away from Kinraid, 'baby's crying for me. +His child--yes, it is his child--I'd forgotten that--forgotten all. +I'll make my vow now, lest I lose mysel' again. I'll never forgive +yon man, nor live with him as his wife again. All that's done and +ended. He's spoilt my life,--he's spoilt it for as long as iver I +live on this earth; but neither yo' nor him shall spoil my soul. It +goes hard wi' me, Charley, it does indeed. I'll just give yo' one +kiss--one little kiss--and then, so help me God, I'll niver see nor +hear till--no, not that, not that is needed--I'll niver see--sure +that's enough--I'll never see yo' again on this side heaven, so help +me God! I'm bound and tied, but I've sworn my oath to him as well as +yo': there's things I will do, and there's things I won't. Kiss me +once more. God help me, he's gone!' + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +A RECKLESS RECRUIT + + + + + +She lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched out, her face +unseen. Every now and then a thrill ran through her body: she was +talking to herself all the time with incessant low incontinence of +words. + +Philip stood near her, motionless: he did not know whether she was +conscious of his presence; in fact, he knew nothing but that he and +she were sundered for ever; he could only take in that one idea, and +it numbed all other thought. + +Once more her baby cried for the comfort she alone could give. + +She rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to walk; her +glazed eyes fell upon Philip as he instinctively made a step to hold +her steady. No light came into her eyes any more than if she had +looked upon a perfect stranger; not even was there the contraction +of dislike. Some other figure filled her mind, and she saw him no +more than she saw the inanimate table. That way of looking at him +withered him up more than any sign of aversion would have done. + +He watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and vanish out of +sight; and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme bodily +weakness. + +The door of communication between the parlour and the shop was +opened. That was the first event of which Philip took note; but +Phoebe had come in unawares to him, with the intention of removing +the breakfast things on her return from market, and seeing them +unused, and knowing that Sylvia had sate up all night with her +mother, she had gone back to the kitchen. Philip had neither seen +nor heard her. + +Now Coulson came in, amazed at Hepburn's non-appearance in the shop. + +'Why! Philip, what's ado? How ill yo' look, man!' exclaimed he, +thoroughly alarmed by Philip's ghastly appearance. 'What's the +matter?' + +'I!' said Philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. 'Why should there +be anything the matter?' + +His instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him shrink from +his misery being noticed, much more made any subject for explanation +or sympathy. + +'There may be nothing the matter wi' thee,' said Coulson, 'but +thou's the look of a corpse on thy face. I was afeared something was +wrong, for it's half-past nine, and thee so punctual!' + +He almost guarded Philip into the shop, and kept furtively watching +him, and perplexing himself with Philip's odd, strange ways. + +Hester, too, observed the heavy broken-down expression on Philip's +ashen face, and her heart ached for him; but after that first +glance, which told her so much, she avoided all appearance of +noticing or watching. Only a shadow brooded over her sweet, calm +face, and once or twice she sighed to herself. + +It was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing their store +of gossip from the country, or the town--from the farm or the +quay-side. + +Among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the night before +furnished a large topic; and by-and-by Philip heard a name that +startled him into attention. + +The landlady of a small public-house much frequented by sailors was +talking to Coulson. + +'There was a sailor aboard of her as knowed Kinraid by sight, in +Shields, years ago; and he called him by his name afore they were +well out o' t' river. And Kinraid was no ways set up, for all his +lieutenant's uniform (and eh! but they say he looks handsome in +it!); but he tells 'm all about it--how he was pressed aboard a +man-o'-war, an' for his good conduct were made a warrant officer, +boatswain, or something!' + +All the people in the shop were listening now; Philip alone seemed +engrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as to leave no possible +chance of creases in it; yet he lost not a syllable of the good +woman's narration. + +She, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had attracted, went +on with fresh vigour. + +'An' there's a gallant captain, one Sir Sidney Smith, and he'd a +notion o' goin' smack into a French port, an' carryin' off a vessel +from right under their very noses; an' says he, "Which of yo' +British sailors 'll go along with me to death or glory?" So Kinraid +stands up like a man, an' "I'll go with yo', captain," he says. So +they, an' some others as brave, went off, an' did their work, an' +choose whativer it was, they did it famously; but they got caught by +them French, an' were clapped into prison i' France for iver so +long; but at last one Philip--Philip somethin' (he were a Frenchman, +I know)--helped 'em to escape, in a fishin'-boat. But they were +welcomed by th' whole British squadron as was i' t' Channel for t' +piece of daring they'd done i' cuttin' out t' ship from a French +port; an' Captain Sir Sidney Smith was made an admiral, an' him as +we used t' call Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, is made a +lieutenant, an' a commissioned officer i' t' King's service; and is +come to great glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night as +is just past!' + +A murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed all around +Philip. All this was publicly known about Kinraid,--and how much +more? All Monkshaven might hear tomorrow--nay, to-day--of Philip's +treachery to the hero of the hour; how he had concealed his fate, +and supplanted him in his love. + +Philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which he knew +must follow. Any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the +people's favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury; +and among a primitive set of country-folk, who recognize the wild +passion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason and +self-restraint, any story of baulked affections, or treachery in +such matters, spreads like wildfire. + +Philip knew this quite well; his doom of disgrace lay plain before +him, if only Kinraid spoke the word. His head was bent down while he +thus listened and reflected. He half resolved on doing something; he +lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face in the little +strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look +at themselves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved. + +The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, pale face, +made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning's +events. He saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with +something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance as he +remembered the square, upright build of Kinraid; his fine uniform, +with epaulette and sword-belt; his handsome brown face; his dark +eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation; his white +teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn. + +The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness to active +despair. + +He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and +on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless +of Phoebe's look and words, began to eat it before he even left the +place; for he needed the strength that food would give; he needed it +to carry him out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might +hear what he had done, and point their fingers at him. + +He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tight +together, he went upstairs. + +First of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs, +in which his baby slept. He dearly loved the child, and many a time +would run in and play a while with it; and in such gambols he and +Sylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life. + +The little Bella was having her morning slumber; Nancy used to tell +long afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was so +strange she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh upon +eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayers +when they got up, and when they went to bed. + +Then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long, +lingering, soft, fond kiss. And on tip-toe he passed away into the +room where his aunt lay; his aunt who had been so true a friend to +him! He was thankful to know that in her present state she was safe +from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of the +shame to come. + +He had not meant to see Sylvia again; he dreaded the look of her +hatred, her scorn, but there, outside her mother's bed, she lay, +apparently asleep. Mrs. Robson, too, was sleeping, her face towards +the wall. Philip could not help it; he went to have one last look at +his wife. She was turned towards her mother, her face averted from +him; he could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet +quivering: he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand that +lay listless by her side. As his hot breath neared that hand it was +twitched away, and a shiver ran through the whole prostrate body. +And then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by her +misery,--misery that he had caused. + +He sighed heavily; but he went away, down-stairs, and away for ever. +Only as he entered the parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes, +one of himself, one of Sylvia, done in the first month of their +marriage, by some wandering artist, if so he could be called. They +were hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames; black +profiles, with the lights done in gold; about as poor semblances of +humanity as could be conceived; but Philip went up, and after +looking for a minute or so at Sylvia's, he took it down, and +buttoned his waistcoat over it. + +It was the only thing he took away from his home. + +He went down the entry on to the quay. The river was there, and +waters, they say, have a luring power, and a weird promise of rest +in their perpetual monotony of sound. But many people were there, if +such a temptation presented itself to Philip's mind; the sight of +his fellow-townsmen, perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him up +another entry--the town is burrowed with such--back into the High +Street, which he straightway crossed into a well-known court, out of +which rough steps led to the summit of the hill, and on to the fells +and moors beyond. + +He plunged and panted up this rough ascent. From the top he could +look down on the whole town lying below, severed by the bright +shining river into two parts. To the right lay the sea, shimmering +and heaving; there were the cluster of masts rising out of the +little port; the irregular roofs of the houses; which of them, +thought he, as he carried his eye along the quay-side to the +market-place, which of them was his? and he singled it out in its +unfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke rising from the +kitchen chimney, where even now Phoebe was cooking the household +meal that he never more must share. + +Up at that thought and away, he knew not nor cared not whither. He +went through the ploughed fields where the corn was newly springing; +he came down upon the vast sunny sea, and turned his back upon it +with loathing; he made his way inland to the high green pastures; +the short upland turf above which the larks hung poised 'at heaven's +gate'. He strode along, so straight and heedless of briar and bush, +that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, and looked after him +with their great blank puzzled eyes. + +He had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, and was fairly on +the desolate brown moors; through the withered last year's ling and +fern, through the prickly gorse, he tramped, crushing down the +tender shoots of this year's growth, and heedless of the startled +plover's cry, goaded by the furies. His only relief from thought, +from the remembrance of Sylvia's looks and words, was in violent +bodily action. + +So he went on till evening shadows and ruddy evening lights came out +upon the wild fells. + +He had crossed roads and lanes, with a bitter avoidance of men's +tracks; but now the strong instinct of self-preservation came out, +and his aching limbs, his weary heart, giving great pants and beats +for a time, and then ceasing altogether till a mist swam and +quivered before his aching eyes, warned him that he must find some +shelter and food, or lie down to die. He fell down now, often; +stumbling over the slightest obstacle. He had passed the cattle +pastures; he was among the black-faced sheep; and they, too, ceased +nibbling, and looked after him, and somehow, in his poor wandering +imagination, their silly faces turned to likenesses of Monkshaven +people--people who ought to be far, far away. + +'Thou'll be belated on these fells, if thou doesn't tak' heed,' +shouted some one. + +Philip looked abroad to see whence the voice proceeded. + +An old stiff-legged shepherd, in a smock-frock, was within a couple +of hundred yards. Philip did not answer, but staggered and stumbled +towards him. + +'Good lork!' said the man, 'wheere hast ta been? Thou's seen Oud +Harry, I think, thou looks so scared.' + +Philip rallied himself, and tried to speak up to the old standard of +respectability; but the effort was pitiful to see, had any one been +by, who could have understood the pain it caused to restrain cries +of bodily and mental agony. + +'I've lost my way, that's all.' + +''Twould ha' been enough, too, I'm thinkin', if I hadn't come out +after t' ewes. There's t' Three Griffins near at hand: a sup o' +Hollands 'll set thee to reeghts.' + +Philip followed faintly. He could not see before him, and was guided +by the sound of footsteps rather than by the sight of the figure +moving onwards. He kept stumbling; and he knew that the old shepherd +swore at him; but he also knew such curses proceeded from no +ill-will, only from annoyance at the delay in going and 'seem' after +t' ewes.' But had the man's words conveyed the utmost expression of +hatred, Philip would neither have wondered at them, nor resented +them. + +They came into a wild mountain road, unfenced from the fells. A +hundred yards off, and there was a small public-house, with a broad +ruddy oblong of firelight shining across the tract. + +'Theere!' said the old man. 'Thee cannot well miss that. A dunno +tho', thee bees sich a gawby.' + +So he went on, and delivered Philip safely up to the landlord. + +'Here's a felly as a fund on t' fell side, just as one as if he were +drunk; but he's sober enough, a reckon, only summat's wrong i' his +head, a'm thinkin'.' + +'No!' said Philip, sitting down on the first chair he came to. 'I'm +right enough; just fairly wearied out: lost my way,' and he fainted. + +There was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting in the +house-place, drinking. He, too, like Philip, had lost his way; but +was turning his blunder to account by telling all manner of +wonderful stories to two or three rustics who had come in ready to +drink on any pretence; especially if they could get good liquor +without paying for it. + +The sergeant rose as Philip fell back, and brought up his own mug of +beer, into which a noggin of gin had been put (called in Yorkshire +'dog's-nose'). He partly poured and partly spilt some of this +beverage on Philip's face; some drops went through the pale and +parted lips, and with a start the worn-out man revived. + +'Bring him some victual, landlord,' called out the recruiting +sergeant. 'I'll stand shot.' + +They brought some cold bacon and coarse oat-cake. The sergeant asked +for pepper and salt; minced the food fine and made it savoury, and +kept administering it by teaspoonfuls; urging Philip to drink from +time to time from his own cup of dog's-nose. + +A burning thirst, which needed no stimulant from either pepper or +salt, took possession of Philip, and he drank freely, scarcely +recognizing what he drank. It took effect on one so habitually +sober; and he was soon in that state when the imagination works +wildly and freely. + +He saw the sergeant before him, handsome, and bright, and active, in +his gay red uniform, without a care, as it seemed to Philip, taking +life lightly; admired and respected everywhere because of his cloth. + +If Philip were gay, and brisk, well-dressed like him, returning with +martial glory to Monkshaven, would not Sylvia love him once more? +Could not he win her heart? He was brave by nature, and the prospect +of danger did not daunt him, if ever it presented itself to his +imagination. + +He thought he was cautious in entering on the subject of enlistment +with his new friend, the sergeant; but the latter was twenty times +as cunning as he, and knew by experience how to bait his hook. + +Philip was older by some years than the regulation age; but, at that +time of great demand for men, the question of age was lightly +entertained. The sergeant was profuse in statements of the +advantages presented to a man of education in his branch of the +service; how such a one was sure to rise; in fact, it would have +seemed from the sergeant's account, as though the difficulty +consisted in remaining in the ranks. + +Philip's dizzy head thought the subject over and over again, each +time with failing power of reason. + +At length, almost, as it would seem, by some sleight of hand, he +found the fatal shilling in his palm, and had promised to go before +the nearest magistrate to be sworn in as one of his Majesty's +marines the next morning. And after that he remembered nothing more. + +He wakened up in a little truckle-bed in the same room as the +sergeant, who lay sleeping the sleep of full contentment; while +gradually, drop by drop, the bitter recollections of the day before +came, filling up Philip's cup of agony. + +He knew that he had received the bounty-money; and though he was +aware that he had been partly tricked into it, and had no hope, no +care, indeed, for any of the advantages so liberally promised him +the night before, yet he was resigned, with utterly despondent +passiveness, to the fate to which he had pledged himself. Anything +was welcome that severed him from his former life, that could make +him forget it, if that were possible; and also welcome anything +which increased the chances of death without the sinfulness of his +own participation in the act. He found in the dark recess of his +mind the dead body of his fancy of the previous night; that he might +come home, handsome and glorious, to win the love that had never +been his. + +But he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of his sight--so +full of despair was he. He could eat no breakfast, though the +sergeant ordered of the best. The latter kept watching his new +recruit out of the corner of his eye, expecting a remonstrance, or +dreading a sudden bolt. + +But Philip walked with him the two or three miles in the most +submissive silence, never uttering a syllable of regret or +repentance; and before Justice Cholmley, of Holm-Fell Hall, he was +sworn into his Majesty's service, under the name of Stephen Freeman. +With a new name, he began a new life. Alas! the old life lives for +ever! + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +THINGS UNUTTERABLE + + + + + +After Philip had passed out of the room, Sylvia lay perfectly still, +from very exhaustion. Her mother slept on, happily unconscious of +all the turmoil that had taken place; yes, happily, though the heavy +sleep was to end in death. But of this her daughter knew nothing, +imagining that it was refreshing slumber, instead of an ebbing of +life. Both mother and daughter lay motionless till Phoebe entered +the room to tell Sylvia that dinner was on the table. + +Then Sylvia sate up, and put back her hair, bewildered and uncertain +as to what was to be done next; how she should meet the husband to +whom she had discarded all allegiance, repudiated the solemn promise +of love and obedience which she had vowed. + +Phoebe came into the room, with natural interest in the invalid, +scarcely older than herself. + +'How is t' old lady?' asked she, in a low voice. + +Sylvia turned her head round to look; her mother had never moved, +but was breathing in a loud uncomfortable manner, that made her +stoop over her to see the averted face more nearly. + +'Phoebe!' she cried, 'come here! She looks strange and odd; her eyes +are open, but don't see me. Phoebe! Phoebe!' + +'Sure enough, she's in a bad way!' said Phoebe, climbing stiffly on +to the bed to have a nearer view. 'Hold her head a little up t' ease +her breathin' while I go for master; he'll be for sendin' for t' +doctor, I'll be bound.' + +Sylvia took her mother's head and laid it fondly on her breast, +speaking to her and trying to rouse her; but it was of no avail: the +hard, stertorous breathing grew worse and worse. + +Sylvia cried out for help; Nancy came, the baby in her arms. They +had been in several times before that morning; and the child came +smiling and crowing at its mother, who was supporting her own dying +parent. + +'Oh, Nancy!' said Sylvia; 'what is the matter with mother? yo' can +see her face; tell me quick!' + +Nancy set the baby on the bed for all reply, and ran out of the +room, crying out, + +'Master! master! Come quick! T' old missus is a-dying!' + +This appeared to be no news to Sylvia, and yet the words came on her +with a great shock, but for all that she could not cry; she was +surprised herself at her own deadness of feeling. + +Her baby crawled to her, and she had to hold and guard both her +mother and her child. It seemed a long, long time before any one +came, and then she heard muffled voices, and a heavy tramp: it was +Phoebe leading the doctor upstairs, and Nancy creeping in behind to +hear his opinion. + +He did not ask many questions, and Phoebe replied more frequently to +his inquiries than did Sylvia, who looked into his face with a +blank, tearless, speechless despair, that gave him more pain than +the sight of her dying mother. + +The long decay of Mrs. Robson's faculties and health, of which he was +well aware, had in a certain manner prepared him for some such +sudden termination of the life whose duration was hardly desirable, +although he gave several directions as to her treatment; but the +white, pinched face, the great dilated eye, the slow comprehension +of the younger woman, struck him with alarm; and he went on asking +for various particulars, more with a view of rousing Sylvia, if even +it were to tears, than for any other purpose that the information +thus obtained could answer. + +'You had best have pillows propped up behind her--it will not be +for long; she does not know that you are holding her, and it is only +tiring you to no purpose!' + +Sylvia's terrible stare continued: he put his advice into action, +and gently tried to loosen her clasp, and tender hold. This she +resisted; laying her cheek against her poor mother's unconscious +face. + +'Where is Hepburn?' said he. 'He ought to be here!' + +Phoebe looked at Nancy, Nancy at Phoebe. It was the latter who +replied, + +'He's neither i' t' house nor i' t' shop. A seed him go past t' +kitchen window better nor an hour ago; but neither William Coulson +or Hester Rose knows where he's gone to. + +Dr Morgan's lips were puckered up into a whistle, but he made no +sound. + +'Give me baby!' he said, suddenly. Nancy had taken her up off the +bed where she had been sitting, encircled by her mother's arm. The +nursemaid gave her to the doctor. He watched the mother's eye, it +followed her child, and he was rejoiced. He gave a little pinch to +the baby's soft flesh, and she cried out piteously; again the same +action, the same result. Sylvia laid her mother down, and stretched +out her arms for her child, hushing it, and moaning over it. + +'So far so good!' said Dr Morgan to himself. 'But where is the +husband? He ought to be here.' He went down-stairs to make inquiry +for Philip; that poor young creature, about whose health he had +never felt thoroughly satisfied since the fever after her +confinement, was in an anxious condition, and with an inevitable +shock awaiting her. Her husband ought to be with her, and supporting +her to bear it. + +Dr Morgan went into the shop. Hester alone was there. Coulson had +gone to his comfortable dinner at his well-ordered house, with his +common-place wife. If he had felt anxious about Philip's looks and +strange disappearance, he had also managed to account for them in +some indifferent way. + +Hester was alone with the shop-boy; few people came in during the +universal Monkshaven dinner-hour. She was resting her head on her +hand, and puzzled and distressed about many things--all that was +implied by the proceedings of the evening before between Philip and +Sylvia; and that was confirmed by Philip's miserable looks and +strange abstracted ways to-day. Oh! how easy Hester would have found +it to make him happy! not merely how easy, but what happiness it +would have been to her to merge her every wish into the one great +object of fulfiling his will. To her, an on-looker, the course of +married life, which should lead to perfect happiness, seemed to +plain! Alas! it is often so! and the resisting forces which make all +such harmony and delight impossible are not recognized by the +bystanders, hardly by the actors. But if these resisting forces are +only superficial, or constitutional, they are but the necessary +discipline here, and do not radically affect the love which will +make all things right in heaven. + +Some glimmering of this latter comforting truth shed its light on +Hester's troubled thoughts from time to time. But again, how easy +would it have been to her to tread the maze that led to Philip's +happiness; and how difficult it seemed to the wife he had chosen! + +She was aroused by Dr Morgan's voice. + +'So both Coulson and Hepburn have left the shop to your care, +Hester. I want Hepburn, though; his wife is in a very anxious state. +Where is he? can you tell me?' + +'Sylvia in an anxious state! I've not seen her to-day, but last +night she looked as well as could be.' + +'Ay, ay; but many a thing happens in four-and-twenty hours. Her +mother is dying, may be dead by this time; and her husband should be +there with her. Can't you send for him?' + +'I don't know where he is,' said Hester. 'He went off from here all +on a sudden, when there was all the market-folks in t' shop; I +thought he'd maybe gone to John Foster's about th' money, for they +was paying a deal in. I'll send there and inquire.' + +No! the messenger brought back word that he had not been seen at +their bank all morning. Further inquiries were made by the anxious +Hester, by the doctor, by Coulson; all they could learn was that +Phoebe had seen him pass the kitchen window about eleven o'clock, +when she was peeling the potatoes for dinner; and two lads playing +on the quay-side thought they had seen him among a group of sailors; +but these latter, as far as they could be identified, had no +knowledge of his appearance among them. + +Before night the whole town was excited about his disappearance. +Before night Bell Robson had gone to her long home. And Sylvia still +lay quiet and tearless, apparently more unmoved than any other +creature by the events of the day, and the strange vanishing of her +husband. + +The only thing she seemed to care for was her baby; she held it +tight in her arms, and Dr Morgan bade them leave it there, its touch +might draw the desired tears into her weary, sleepless eyes, and +charm the aching pain out of them. + +They were afraid lest she should inquire for her husband, whose +non-appearance at such a time of sorrow to his wife must (they +thought) seem strange to her. And night drew on while they were all +in this state. She had gone back to her own room without a word when +they had desired her to do so; caressing her child in her arms, and +sitting down on the first chair she came to, with a heavy sigh, as +if even this slight bodily exertion had been too much for her. They +saw her eyes turn towards the door every time it was opened, and +they thought it was with anxious expectation of one who could not be +found, though many were seeking for him in all probable places. + +When night came some one had to tell her of her husband's +disappearance; and Dr Morgan was the person who undertook this. + +He came into her room about nine o'clock; her baby was sleeping in +her arms; she herself pale as death, still silent and tearless, +though strangely watchful of gestures and sounds, and probably +cognizant of more than they imagined. + +'Well, Mrs. Hepburn,' said he, as cheerfully as he could, 'I should +advise your going to bed early; for I fancy your husband won't come +home to-night. Some journey or other, that perhaps Coulson can +explain better than I can, will most likely keep him away till +to-morrow. It's very unfortunate that he should be away at such a +sad time as this, as I'm sure he'll feel when he returns; but we +must make the best of it.' + +He watched her to see the effect of his words. + +She sighed, that was all. He still remained a little while. She +lifted her head up a little and asked, + +'How long do yo' think she was unconscious, doctor? Could she hear +things, think yo', afore she fell into that strange kind o' +slumber?' + +'I cannot tell,' said he, shaking his head. 'Was she breathing in +that hard snoring kind of way when you left her this morning?' + +'Yes, I think so; I cannot tell, so much has happened.' + +'When you came back to her, after your breakfast, I think you said +she was in much the same position?' + +'Yes, and yet I may be telling yo' lies; if I could but think: but +it's my head as is aching so; doctor, I wish yo'd go, for I need +being alone, I'm so mazed.' + +'Good-night, then, for you're a wise woman, I see, and mean to go to +bed, and have a good night with baby there.' + +But he went down to Phoebe, and told her to go in from time to time, +and see how her mistress was. + +He found Hester Rose and the old servant together; both had been +crying, both were evidently in great trouble about the death and the +mystery of the day. + +Hester asked if she might go up and see Sylvia, and the doctor gave +his leave, talking meanwhile with Phoebe over the kitchen fire. +Hester came down again without seeing Sylvia. The door of the room +was bolted, and everything quiet inside. + +'Does she know where her husband is, think you?' asked the doctor at +this account of Hester's. 'She's not anxious about him at any rate: +or else the shock of her mother's death has been too much for her. +We must hope for some change in the morning; a good fit of crying, +or a fidget about her husband, would be more natural. Good-night to +you both,' and off he went. + +Phoebe and Hester avoided looking at each other at these words. Both +were conscious of the probability of something having gone seriously +wrong between the husband and wife. Hester had the recollection of +the previous night, Phoebe the untasted breakfast of to-day to go +upon. + +She spoke first. + +'A just wish he'd come home to still folks' tongues. It need niver +ha' been known if t' old lady hadn't died this day of all others. +It's such a thing for t' shop t' have one o' t' partners missin', +an' no one for t' know what's comed on him. It niver happened i' +Fosters' days, that's a' I know.' + +'He'll maybe come back yet,' said Hester. 'It's not so very late.' + +'It were market day, and a',' continued Phoebe, 'just as if +iverything mun go wrong together; an' a' t' country customers'll go +back wi' fine tale i' their mouths, as Measter Hepburn was strayed +an' missin' just like a beast o' some kind.' + +'Hark! isn't that a step?' said Hester suddenly, as a footfall +sounded in the now quiet street; but it passed the door, and the +hope that had arisen on its approach fell as the sound died away. + +'He'll noane come to-night,' said Phoebe, who had been as eager a +listener as Hester, however. 'Thou'd best go thy ways home; a shall +stay up, for it's not seemly for us a' t' go to our beds, an' a +corpse in t' house; an' Nancy, as might ha' watched, is gone to her +bed this hour past, like a lazy boots as she is. A can hear, too, if +t' measter does come home; tho' a'll be bound he wunnot; choose +wheere he is, he'll be i' bed by now, for it's well on to eleven. +I'll let thee out by t' shop-door, and stand by it till thou's close +at home, for it's ill for a young woman to be i' t' street so late.' + +So she held the door open, and shaded the candle from the flickering +outer air, while Hester went to her home with a heavy heart. + +Heavily and hopelessly did they all meet in the morning. No news of +Philip, no change in Sylvia; an unceasing flow of angling and +conjecture and gossip radiating from the shop into the town. + +Hester could have entreated Coulson on her knees to cease from +repeating the details of a story of which every word touched on a +raw place in her sensitive heart; moreover, when they talked +together so eagerly, she could not hear the coming footsteps on the +pavement without. + +Once some one hit very near the truth in a chance remark. + +'It seems strange,' she said, 'how as one man turns up, another just +disappears. Why, it were but upo' Tuesday as Kinraid come back, as +all his own folk had thought to be dead; and next day here's Measter +Hepburn as is gone no one knows wheere!' + +'That's t' way i' this world,' replied Coulson, a little +sententiously. 'This life is full o' changes o' one kind or another; +them that's dead is alive; and as for poor Philip, though he was +alive, he looked fitter to be dead when he came into t' shop o' +Wednesday morning.' + +'And how does she take it?' nodding to where Sylvia was supposed to +be. + +'Oh! she's not herself, so to say. She were just stunned by finding +her mother was dying in her very arms when she thought as she were +only sleeping; yet she's never been able to cry a drop; so that t' +sorrow's gone inwards on her brain, and from all I can hear, she +doesn't rightly understand as her husband is missing. T' doctor says +if she could but cry, she'd come to a juster comprehension of +things.' + +'And what do John and Jeremiah Foster say to it all?' + +'They're down here many a time in t' day to ask if he's come back, +or how she is; for they made a deal on 'em both. They're going t' +attend t' funeral to-morrow, and have given orders as t' shop is to +be shut up in t' morning.' + +To the surprise of every one, Sylvia, who had never left her room +since the night of her mother's death, and was supposed to be almost +unconscious of all that was going on in the house, declared her +intention of following her mother to the grave. No one could do more +than remonstrate: no one had sufficient authority to interfere with +her. Dr Morgan even thought that she might possibly be roused to +tears by the occasion; only he begged Hester to go with her, that +she might have the solace of some woman's company. + +She went through the greater part of the ceremony in the same hard, +unmoved manner in which she had received everything for days past. + +But on looking up once, as they formed round the open grave, she saw +Kester, in his Sunday clothes, with a bit of new crape round his +hat, crying as if his heart would break over the coffin of his good, +kind mistress. + +His evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly loosed the +fountain of Sylvia's tears, and her sobs grew so terrible that +Hester feared she would not be able to remain until the end of the +funeral. But she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she +made an effort to go round by the place where Kester stood. + +'Come and see me,' was all she could say for crying: and Kester only +nodded his head--he could not speak a word. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS + + + + + +That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door. +Phoebe opened it. He asked to see Sylvia. + +'A know not if she'll see thee,' said Phoebe. 'There's no makin' her +out; sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another.' + +'She bid me come and see her,' said Kester. 'Only this mornin', at +missus' buryin', she telled me to come.' + +So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was there; and +returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour. An +instant after he was gone, Phoebe heard him return, and carefully +shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and +sitting-room. + +Sylvia was in the latter when Kester came in, holding her baby close +to her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else, +making Nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to Phoebe's indignation. + +Sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes alone +retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. She went up to +Kester, and shook his horny hand, she herself trembling all over. + +'Don't talk to me of her,' she said hastily. 'I cannot stand it. +It's a blessing for her to be gone, but, oh----' + +She began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and swallowed down +her sobs. + +'Kester,' she went on, hastily, 'Charley Kinraid isn't dead; dost ta +know? He's alive, and he were here o' Tuesday--no, Monday, was it? I +cannot tell--but he were here!' + +'A knowed as he weren't dead. Every one is a-speaking on it. But a +didn't know as thee'd ha' seen him. A took comfort i' thinkin' as +thou'd ha' been wi' thy mother a' t' time as he were i' t' place.' + +'Then he's gone?' said Sylvia. + +'Gone; ay, days past. As far as a know, he but stopped a' neet. A +thought to mysel' (but yo' may be sure a said nought to nobody), +he's heerd as our Sylvia were married, and has put it in his pipe, +and ta'en hissel' off to smoke it.' + +'Kester!' said Sylvia, leaning forwards, and whispering. 'I saw him. +He was here. Philip saw him. Philip had known as he wasn't dead a' +this time!' + +Kester stood up suddenly. + +'By goom, that chap has a deal t' answer for.' + +A bright red spot was on each of Sylvia's white cheeks; and for a +minute or so neither of them spoke. + +Then she went on, still whispering out her words. + +'Kester, I'm more afeared than I dare tell any one: can they ha' +met, think yo'? T' very thought turns me sick. I told Philip my +mind, and took a vow again' him--but it would be awful to think on +harm happening to him through Kinraid. Yet he went out that morning, +and has niver been seen or heard on sin'; and Kinraid were just fell +again' him, and as for that matter, so was I; but----' + +The red spot vanished as she faced her own imagination. + +Kester spoke. + +'It's a thing as can be easy looked into. What day an' time were it +when Philip left this house?' + +'Tuesday--the day she died. I saw him in her room that morning +between breakfast and dinner; I could a'most swear to it's being +close after eleven. I mind counting t' clock. It was that very morn +as Kinraid were here.' + +'A'll go an' have a pint o' beer at t' King's Arms, down on t' +quay-side; it were theere he put up at. An' a'm pretty sure as he +only stopped one night, and left i' t' morning betimes. But a'll go +see.' + +'Do,' said Sylvia, 'and go out through t' shop; they're all watching +and watching me to see how I take things; and daren't let on about +t' fire as is burning up my heart. Coulson is i' t' shop, but he'll +not notice thee like Phoebe.' + +By-and-by Kester came back. It seemed as though Sylvia had never +stirred; she looked eagerly at him, but did not speak. + +'He went away i' Rob Mason's mail-cart, him as tak's t' letters to +Hartlepool. T' lieutenant (as they ca' him down at t' King's Arms; +they're as proud on his uniform as if it had been a new-painted sign +to swing o'er their doors), t' lieutenant had reckoned upo' stayin' +longer wi' 'em; but he went out betimes o' Tuesday morn', an' came +back a' ruffled up, an paid his bill--paid for his breakfast, though +he touched noane on it--an' went off i' Rob postman's mail-cart, as +starts reg'lar at ten o'clock. Corneys has been theere askin' for +him, an' makin' a piece o' work, as he niver went near em; and they +bees cousins. Niver a one among 'em knows as he were here as far as +a could mak' out.' + +'Thank yo', Kester,' said Sylvia, falling back in her chair, as if +all the energy that had kept her stiff and upright was gone now that +her anxiety was relieved. + +She was silent for a long time; her eyes shut, her cheek laid on her +child's head. Kester spoke next. + +'A think it's pretty clear as they'n niver met. But it's a' t' more +wonder where thy husband's gone to. Thee and him had words about it, +and thou telled him thy mind, thou said?' + +'Yes,' said Sylvia, not moving. 'I'm afeared lest mother knows what +I said to him, there, where she's gone to--I am-' the tears filled +her shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks; 'and yet +it were true, what I said, I cannot forgive him; he's just spoilt my +life, and I'm not one-and-twenty yet, and he knowed how wretched, +how very wretched, I were. A word fra' him would ha' mended it a'; +and Charley had bid him speak the word, and give me his faithful +love, and Philip saw my heart ache day after day, and niver let on +as him I was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he'd +keep true to me, as I were to do to him.' + +'A wish a'd been theere; a'd ha' felled him to t' ground,' said +Kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation. + +Sylvia was silent again: pale and weary she sate, her eyes still +shut. + +Then she said, + +'Yet he were so good to mother; and mother loved him so. Oh, +Kester!' lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, 'it's +well for folks as can die; they're spared a deal o' misery.' + +'Ay!' said he. 'But there's folk as one 'ud like to keep fra' +shirkin' their misery. Think yo' now as Philip is livin'?' + +Sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied. + +'I dunnot know. I said such things; he deserved 'em all----' + +'Well, well, lass!' said Kester, sorry that he had asked the +question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another. +'Neither thee nor me can tell; we can neither help nor hinder, +seein' as he's ta'en hissel' off out on our sight, we'd best not +think on him. A'll try an' tell thee some news, if a can think on it +wi' my mind so full. Thou knows Haytersbank folk ha' flitted, and t' +oud place is empty?' + +'Yes!' said Sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with +feeling. + +'A only telled yo' t' account like for me bein' at a loose end i' +Monkshaven. My sister, her as lived at Dale End an' is a widow, has +comed int' town to live; an' a'm lodging wi' her, an' jobbin' about. +A'm gettin' pretty well to do, an' a'm noane far t' seek, an' a'm +going now: only first a just wanted for t' say as a'm thy oldest +friend, a reckon, and if a can do a turn for thee, or go an errand, +like as a've done to-day, or if it's any comfort to talk a bit to +one who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've only t' send for +me, an' a'd come if it were twenty mile. A'm lodgin' at Peggy +Dawson's, t' lath and plaster cottage at t' right hand o' t' bridge, +a' among t' new houses, as they're thinkin' o' buildin' near t' sea: +no one can miss it.' + +He stood up and shook hands with her. As he did so, he looked at her +sleeping baby. + +'She's liker yo' than him. A think a'll say, God bless her.' + +With the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, baby awoke. She +ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the +disturbance made her cry fretfully. + +'Hush thee, darling, hush thee!' murmured her mother; 'there's no +one left to love me but thee, and I cannot stand thy weeping, my +pretty one. Hush thee, my babe, hush thee!' + +She whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairs +to bed. + +About three weeks after the miserable date of Bell Robson's death +and Philip's disappearance, Hester Rose received a letter from him. +She knew the writing on the address well; and it made her tremble so +much that it was many minutes before she dared to open it, and make +herself acquainted with the facts it might disclose. + +But she need not have feared; there were no facts told, unless the +vague date of 'London' might be something to learn. Even that much +might have been found out by the post-mark, only she had been too +much taken by surprise to examine it. + +It ran as follows:-- + +'DEAR HESTER,-- + +'Tell those whom it may concern, that I have left Monkshaven for +ever. No one need trouble themselves about me; I am provided for. +Please to make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the Messrs +Foster, and to my partner, William Coulson. Please to accept of my +love, and to join the same to your mother. Please to give my +particular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt Isabella +Robson. Her daughter Sylvia knows what I have always felt, and shall +always feel, for her better than I can ever put into language, so I +send her no message; God bless and keep my child. You must all look +on me as one dead; as I am to you, and maybe shall soon be in +reality. + +'Your affectionate and obedient friend to command, 'PHILIP +HEPBURN. 'P.S.--Oh, Hester! for God's sake and mine, look +after ('my wife,' scratched out) Sylvia and my child. I think +Jeremiah Foster will help you to be a friend to them. This is the +last solemn request of P. H. She is but very young.' + +Hester read this letter again and again, till her heart caught the +echo of its hopelessness, and sank within her. She put it in her +pocket, and reflected upon it all the day long as she served in the +shop. + +The customers found her as gentle, but far more inattentive than +usual. She thought that in the evening she would go across the +bridge, and consult with the two good old brothers Foster. But +something occurred to put off the fulfilment of this plan. + +That same morning Sylvia had preceded her, with no one to consult, +because consultation would have required previous confidence, and +confidence would have necessitated such a confession about Kinraid +as it was most difficult for Sylvia to make. The poor young wife yet +felt that some step must be taken by her; and what it was to be she +could not imagine. + +She had no home to go to; for as Philip was gone away, she remained +where she was only on sufferance; she did not know what means of +livelihood she had; she was willing to work, nay, would be thankful +to take up her old life of country labour; but with her baby, what +could she do? + +In this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's kindly speech and +offer of assistance, made, it is true, half in joke, at the end of +her wedding visit, came into her mind; and she resolved to go and +ask for some of the friendly counsel and assistance then offered. + +It would be the first time of her going out since her mother's +funeral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. More even than +on that account did she shrink from going into the streets again. +She could not get over the impression that Kinraid must be lingering +near; and she distrusted herself so much that it was a positive +terror to think of meeting him again. She felt as though, if she but +caught a sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard his +well-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart would +stop, and she should die from very fright of what would come next. +Or rather so she felt, and so she thought before she took her baby +in her arms, as Nancy gave it to her after putting on its +out-of-door attire. + +With it in her arms she was protected, and the whole current of her +thoughts was changed. The infant was wailing and suffering with its +teething, and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing and +consoling her moaning child, that the dangerous quay-side and the +bridge were passed almost before she was aware; nor did she notice +the eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met who +recognized her even through the heavy veil which formed part of the +draping mourning provided for her by Hester and Coulson, in the +first unconscious days after her mother's death. + +Though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon Philip's +disappearance--warned possibly by Kinraid's story against hasty +decisions and judgments in such times as those of war and general +disturbance--yet every one agreed that no more pitiful fate could +have befallen Philip's wife. + +Marked out by her striking beauty as an object of admiring interest +even in those days when she sate in girlhood's smiling peace by her +mother at the Market Cross--her father had lost his life in a +popular cause, and ignominious as the manner of his death might be, +he was looked upon as a martyr to his zeal in avenging the wrongs of +his townsmen; Sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quiet +daily life was well known to them; and now her husband had been +carried off from her side just on the very day when she needed his +comfort most. + +For the general opinion was that Philip had been 'carried off'--in +seaport towns such occurrences were not uncommon in those +days--either by land-crimps or water-crimps. + +So Sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one sorely +afflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering walk +to Jeremiah Foster's. + +She had calculated her time so as to fall in with him at his dinner +hour, even though it obliged her to go to his own house rather than +to the bank where he and his brother spent all the business hours of +the day. + +Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and the +weight of her baby, that all she could do when the door was opened +was to totter into the nearest seat, sit down, and begin to cry. + +In an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her heavy cloak, +offering to relieve her of her child, who clung to her all the more +firmly, and some one was pressing a glass of wine against her lips. + +'No, sir, I cannot take it! wine allays gives me th' headache; if I +might have just a drink o' water. Thank you, ma'am' (to the +respectable-looking old servant), 'I'm well enough now; and perhaps, +sir, I might speak a word with yo', for it's that I've come for.' + +'It's a pity, Sylvia Hepburn, as thee didst not come to me at the +bank, for it's been a long toil for thee all this way in the heat, +with thy child. But if there's aught I can do or say for thee, thou +hast but to name it, I am sure. Martha! wilt thou relieve her of her +child while she comes with me into the parlour?' + +But the wilful little Bella stoutly refused to go to any one, and +Sylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was. + +So the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her after-life +depended on this trivial fact. + +Once installed in the easy-chair, and face to face with Jeremiah, +Sylvia did not know how to begin. + +Jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover herself, by +pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle before +the child's eyes, almost within reach of the child's eager little +fingers. + +'She favours you a deal,' said he, at last. 'More than her father,' +he went on, purposely introducing Philip's name, so as to break the +ice; for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him about +something connected with her husband. + +Still Sylvia said nothing; she was choking down tears and shyness, +and unwillingness to take as confidant a man of whom she knew so +little, on such slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as the +little kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from that +house the last time that she entered it. + +'It's no use keeping yo', sir,' she broke out at last. 'It's about +Philip as I comed to speak. Do yo' know any thing whatsomever about +him? He niver had a chance o' saying anything, I know; but maybe +he's written?' + +'Not a line, my poor young woman!' said Jeremiah, hastily putting an +end to that vain idea. + +'Then he's either dead or gone away for iver,' she whispered. 'I mun +be both feyther and mother to my child.' + +'Oh! thee must not give it up,' replied he. 'Many a one is carried +off to the wars, or to the tenders o' men-o'-war; and then they turn +out to be unfit for service, and are sent home. Philip 'll come back +before the year's out; thee'll see that.' + +'No; he'll niver come back. And I'm not sure as I should iver wish +him t' come back, if I could but know what was gone wi' him. Yo' +see, sir, though I were sore set again' him, I shouldn't like harm +to happen him.' + +'There is something behind all this that I do not understand. Can +thee tell me what it is?' + +'I must, sir, if yo're to help me wi' your counsel; and I came up +here to ask for it.' + +Another long pause, during which Jeremiah made a feint of playing +with the child, who danced and shouted with tantalized impatience at +not being able to obtain possession of the seal, and at length +stretched out her soft round little arms to go to the owner of the +coveted possession. Surprise at this action roused Sylvia, and she +made some comment upon it. + +'I niver knew her t' go to any one afore. I hope she'll not be +troublesome to yo', sir?' + +The old man, who had often longed for a child of his own in days +gone by, was highly pleased by this mark of baby's confidence, and +almost forgot, in trying to strengthen her regard by all the winning +wiles in his power, how her poor mother was still lingering over +some painful story which she could not bring herself to tell. + +'I'm afeared of speaking wrong again' any one, sir. And mother were +so fond o' Philip; but he kept something from me as would ha' made +me a different woman, and some one else, happen, a different man. I +were troth-plighted wi' Kinraid the specksioneer, him as was cousin +to th' Corneys o' Moss Brow, and comed back lieutenant i' t' navy +last Tuesday three weeks, after ivery one had thought him dead and +gone these three years.' + +She paused. + +'Well?' said Jeremiah, with interest; although his attention +appeared to be divided between the mother's story and the eager +playfulness of the baby on his knee. + +'Philip knew he were alive; he'd seen him taken by t' press-gang, +and Charley had sent a message to me by Philip.' + +Her white face was reddening, her eyes flashing at this point of her +story. + +'And he niver told me a word on it, not when he saw me like to break +my heart in thinking as Kinraid were dead; he kept it a' to hissel'; +and watched me cry, and niver said a word to comfort me wi' t' +truth. It would ha' been a great comfort, sir, only t' have had his +message if I'd niver ha' been to see him again. But Philip niver let +on to any one, as I iver heared on, that he'd seen Charley that +morning as t' press-gang took him. Yo' know about feyther's death, +and how friendless mother and me was left? and so I married him; for +he were a good friend to us then, and I were dazed like wi' sorrow, +and could see naught else to do for mother. He were allays very +tender and good to her, for sure.' + +Again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one or two deep +sighs. + +'If I go on, sir, now, I mun ask yo' to promise as yo'll niver tell. +I do so need some one to tell me what I ought to do, and I were led +here, like, else I would ha' died wi' it all within my teeth. Yo'll +promise, sir?' + +Jeremiah Foster looked in her face, and seeing the wistful, eager +look, he was touched almost against his judgment into giving the +promise required; she went on. + +'Upon a Tuesday morning, three weeks ago, I think, tho' for t' +matter o' time it might ha' been three years, Kinraid come home; +come back for t' claim me as his wife, and I were wed to Philip! I +met him i' t' road at first; and I couldn't tell him theere. He +followed me into t' house--Philip's house, sir, behind t' shop--and +somehow I told him all, how I were a wedded wife to another. Then he +up and said I'd a false heart--me false, sir, as had eaten my daily +bread in bitterness, and had wept t' nights through, all for sorrow +and mourning for his death! Then he said as Philip knowed all t' +time he were alive and coming back for me; and I couldn't believe +it, and I called Philip, and he come, and a' that Charley had said +were true; and yet I were Philip's wife! So I took a mighty oath, +and I said as I'd niver hold Philip to be my lawful husband again, +nor iver forgive him for t' evil he'd wrought us, but hold him as a +stranger and one as had done me a heavy wrong.' + +She stopped speaking; her story seemed to her to end there. But her +listener said, after a pause, + +'It were a cruel wrong, I grant thee that; but thy oath were a sin, +and thy words were evil, my poor lass. What happened next?' + +'I don't justly remember,' she said, wearily. 'Kinraid went away, +and mother cried out; and I went to her. She were asleep, I thought, +so I lay down by her, to wish I were dead, and to think on what +would come on my child if I died; and Philip came in softly, and I +made as if I were asleep; and that's t' very last as I've iver seen +or heared of him.' + +Jeremiah Foster groaned as she ended her story. Then he pulled +himself up, and said, in a cheerful tone of voice, + +'He'll come back, Sylvia Hepburn. He'll think better of it: never +fear!' + +'I fear his coming back!' said she. 'That's what I'm feared on; I +would wish as I knew on his well-doing i' some other place; but him +and me can niver live together again.' + +'Nay,' pleaded Jeremiah. 'Thee art sorry what thee said; thee were +sore put about, or thee wouldn't have said it.' + +He was trying to be a peace-maker, and to heal over conjugal +differences; but he did not go deep enough. + +'I'm not sorry,' said she, slowly. 'I were too deeply wronged to be +"put about"; that would go off wi' a night's sleep. It's only the +thought of mother (she's dead and happy, and knows nought of all +this, I trust) that comes between me and hating Philip. I'm not +sorry for what I said.' + +Jeremiah had never met with any one so frank and undisguised in +expressions of wrong feeling, and he scarcely knew what to say. + +He looked extremely grieved, and not a little shocked. So pretty and +delicate a young creature to use such strong relentless language! + +She seemed to read his thoughts, for she made answer to them. + +'I dare say you think I'm very wicked, sir, not to be sorry. Perhaps +I am. I can't think o' that for remembering how I've suffered; and +he knew how miserable I was, and might ha' cleared my misery away +wi' a word; and he held his peace, and now it's too late! I'm sick +o' men and their cruel, deceitful ways. I wish I were dead.' + +She was crying before she had ended this speech, and seeing her +tears, the child began to cry too, stretching out its little arms to +go back to its mother. The hard stony look on her face melted away +into the softest, tenderest love as she clasped the little one to +her, and tried to soothe its frightened sobs. + +A bright thought came into the old man's mind. + +He had been taking a complete dislike to her till her pretty way +with her baby showed him that she had a heart of flesh within her. + +'Poor little one!' said he, 'thy mother had need love thee, for +she's deprived thee of thy father's love. Thou'rt half-way to being +an orphan; yet I cannot call thee one of the fatherless to whom God +will be a father. Thou'rt a desolate babe, thou may'st well cry; +thine earthly parents have forsaken thee, and I know not if the Lord +will take thee up.' + +Sylvia looked up at him affrighted; holding her baby tighter to her, +she exclaimed. + +'Don't speak so, sir! it's cursing, sir! I haven't forsaken her! Oh, +sir! those are awful sayings.' + +'Thee hast sworn never to forgive thy husband, nor to live with him +again. Dost thee know that by the law of the land, he may claim his +child; and then thou wilt have to forsake it, or to be forsworn? +Poor little maiden!' continued he, once more luring the baby to him +with the temptation of the watch and chain. + +Sylvia thought for a while before speaking. Then she said, + +'I cannot tell what ways to take. Whiles I think my head is crazed. +It were a cruel turn he did me!' + +'It was. I couldn't have thought him guilty of such baseness.' + +This acquiescence, which was perfectly honest on Jeremiah's part, +almost took Sylvia by surprise. Why might she not hate one who had +been both cruel and base in his treatment of her? And yet she +recoiled from the application of such hard terms by another to +Philip, by a cool-judging and indifferent person, as she esteemed +Jeremiah to be. From some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, she +began to defend him, or at least to palliate the harsh judgment +which she herself had been the first to pronounce. + +'He were so tender to mother; she were dearly fond on him; he niver +spared aught he could do for her, else I would niver ha' married +him.' + +'He was a good and kind-hearted lad from the time he was fifteen. +And I never found him out in any falsehood, no more did my brother.' + +'But it were all the same as a lie,' said Sylvia, swiftly changing +her ground, 'to leave me to think as Charley were dead, when he +knowed all t' time he were alive.' + +'It was. It was a self-seeking lie; putting thee to pain to get his +own ends. And the end of it has been that he is driven forth like +Cain.' + +'I niver told him to go, sir.' + +'But thy words sent him forth, Sylvia.' + +'I cannot unsay them, sir; and I believe as I should say them +again.' + +But she said this as one who rather hopes for a contradiction. + +All Jeremiah replied, however, was, 'Poor wee child!' in a pitiful +tone, addressed to the baby. + +Sylvia's eyes filled with tears. + +'Oh, sir, I'll do anything as iver yo' can tell me for her. That's +what I came for t' ask yo'. I know I mun not stay theere, and Philip +gone away; and I dunnot know what to do: and I'll do aught, only I +must keep her wi' me. Whativer can I do, sir?' + +Jeremiah thought it over for a minute or two. Then he replied, + +'I must have time to think. I must talk it over with brother John.' + +'But you've given me yo'r word, sir!' exclaimed she. + +'I have given thee my word never to tell any one of what has passed +between thee and thy husband, but I must take counsel with my +brother as to what is to be done with thee and thy child, now that +thy husband has left the shop.' + +This was said so gravely as almost to be a reproach, and he got up, +as a sign that the interview was ended. + +He gave the baby back to its mother; but not without a solemn +blessing, so solemn that, to Sylvia's superstitious and excited +mind, it undid the terrors of what she had esteemed to be a curse. + +'The Lord bless thee and keep thee! The Lord make His face to shine +upon thee!' + +All the way down the hill-side, Sylvia kept kissing the child, and +whispering to its unconscious ears,-- + +'I'll love thee for both, my treasure, I will. I'll hap thee round +wi' my love, so as thou shall niver need a feyther's.' + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +BEREAVEMENT + + + + + +Hester had been prevented by her mother's indisposition from taking +Philip's letter to the Fosters, to hold a consultation with them +over its contents. + +Alice Rose was slowly failing, and the long days which she had to +spend alone told much upon her spirits, and consequently upon her +health. + +All this came out in the conversation which ensued after reading +Hepburn's letter in the little parlour at the bank on the day after +Sylvia had had her confidential interview with Jeremiah Foster. + +He was a true man of honour, and never so much as alluded to her +visit to him; but what she had then told him influenced him very +much in the formation of the project which he proposed to his +brother and Hester. + +He recommended her remaining where she was, living still in the +house behind the shop; for he thought within himself that she might +have exaggerated the effect of her words upon Philip; that, after +all, it might have been some cause totally disconnected with them, +which had blotted out her husband's place among the men of +Monkshaven; and that it would be so much easier for both to resume +their natural relations, both towards each other and towards the +world, if Sylvia remained where her husband had left her--in an +expectant attitude, so to speak. + +Jeremiah Foster questioned Hester straitly about her letter: whether +she had made known its contents to any one. No, not to any one. +Neither to her mother nor to William Coulson? No, to neither. + +She looked at him as she replied to his inquiries, and he looked at +her, each wondering if the other could be in the least aware that a +conjugal quarrel might be at the root of the dilemma in which they +were placed by Hepburn's disappearance. + +But neither Hester, who had witnessed the misunderstanding between +the husband and wife on the evening, before the morning on which +Philip went away, nor Jeremiah Foster, who had learnt from Sylvia +the true reason of her husband's disappearance, gave the slightest +reason to the other to think that they each supposed they had a clue +to the reason of Hepburn's sudden departure. + +What Jeremiah Foster, after a night's consideration, had to propose +was this; that Hester and her mother should come and occupy the +house in the market-place, conjointly with Sylvia and her child. +Hester's interest in the shop was by this time acknowledged. +Jeremiah had made over to her so much of his share in the business, +that she had a right to be considered as a kind of partner; and she +had long been the superintendent of that department of goods which +were exclusively devoted to women. So her daily presence was +requisite for more reasons than one. + +Yet her mother's health and spirits were such as to render it +unadvisable that the old woman should be too much left alone; and +Sylvia's devotion to her own mother seemed to point her out as the +very person who could be a gentle and tender companion to Alice Rose +during those hours when her own daughter would necessarily be +engaged in the shop. + +Many desirable objects seemed to be gained by this removal of Alice: +an occupation was provided for Sylvia, which would detain her in the +place where her husband had left her, and where (Jeremiah Foster +fairly expected in spite of his letter) he was likely to come back +to find her; and Alice Rose, the early love of one of the brothers, +the old friend of the other, would be well cared for, and under her +daughter's immediate supervision during the whole of the time that +she was occupied in the shop. + +Philip's share of the business, augmented by the money which he had +put in from the legacy of his old Cumberland uncle, would bring in +profits enough to support Sylvia and her child in ease and comfort +until that time, which they all anticipated, when he should return +from his mysterious wandering--mysterious, whether his going forth +had been voluntary or involuntary. + +Thus far was settled; and Jeremiah Foster went to tell Sylvia of the +plan. + +She was too much a child, too entirely unaccustomed to any +independence of action, to do anything but leave herself in his +hands. Her very confession, made to him the day before, when she +sought his counsel, seemed to place her at his disposal. Otherwise, +she had had notions of the possibility of a free country life once +more--how provided for and arranged she hardly knew; but Haytersbank +was to let, and Kester disengaged, and it had just seemed possible +that she might have to return to her early home, and to her old +life. She knew that it would take much money to stock the farm +again, and that her hands were tied from much useful activity by the +love and care she owed to her baby. But still, somehow, she hoped +and she fancied, till Jeremiah Foster's measured words and +carefully-arranged plan made her silently relinquish her green, +breezy vision. + +Hester, too, had her own private rebellion--hushed into submission +by her gentle piety. If Sylvia had been able to make Philip happy, +Hester could have felt lovingly and almost gratefully towards her; +but Sylvia had failed in this. + +Philip had been made unhappy, and was driven forth a wanderer into +the wide world--never to come back! And his last words to Hester, +the postscript of his letter, containing the very pith of it, was to +ask her to take charge and care of the wife whose want of love +towards him had uprooted him from the place where he was valued and +honoured. + +It cost Hester many a struggle and many a self-reproach before she +could make herself feel what she saw all along--that in everything +Philip treated her like a sister. But even a sister might well be +indignant if she saw her brother's love disregarded and slighted, +and his life embittered by the thoughtless conduct of a wife! Still +Hester fought against herself, and for Philip's sake she sought to +see the good in Sylvia, and she strove to love her as well as to +take care of her. + +With the baby, of course, the case was different. Without thought or +struggle, or reason, every one loved the little girl. Coulson and +his buxom wife, who were childless, were never weary of making much +of her. Hester's happiest hours were spent with that little child. +Jeremiah Foster almost looked upon her as his own from the day when +she honoured him by yielding to the temptation of the chain and +seal, and coming to his knee; not a customer to the shop but knew +the smiling child's sad history, and many a country-woman would save +a rosy-cheeked apple from out her store that autumn to bring it on +next market-day for 'Philip Hepburn's baby, as had lost its father, +bless it.' + +Even stern Alice Rose was graciously inclined towards the little +Bella; and though her idea of the number of the elect was growing +narrower and narrower every day, she would have been loth to exclude +the innocent little child, that stroked her wrinkled cheeks so +softly every night in return for her blessing, from the few that +should be saved. Nay, for the child's sake, she relented towards the +mother; and strove to have Sylvia rescued from the many castaways +with fervent prayer, or, as she phrased it, 'wrestling with the +Lord'. + +Alice had a sort of instinct that the little child, so tenderly +loved by, so fondly loving, the mother whose ewe-lamb she was, could +not be even in heaven without yearning for the creature she had +loved best on earth; and the old woman believed that this was the +principal reason for her prayers for Sylvia; but unconsciously to +herself, Alice Rose was touched by the filial attentions she +constantly received from the young mother, whom she believed to be +foredoomed to condemnation. + +Sylvia rarely went to church or chapel, nor did she read her Bible; +for though she spoke little of her ignorance, and would fain, for +her child's sake, have remedied it now it was too late, she had lost +what little fluency of reading she had ever had, and could only make +out her words with much spelling and difficulty. So the taking her +Bible in hand would have been a mere form; though of this Alice Rose +knew nothing. + +No one knew much of what was passing in Sylvia; she did not know +herself. Sometimes in the nights she would waken, crying, with a +terrible sense of desolation; every one who loved her, or whom she +had loved, had vanished out of her life; every one but her child, +who lay in her arms, warm and soft. + +But then Jeremiah Foster's words came upon her; words that she had +taken for cursing at the time; and she would so gladly have had some +clue by which to penetrate the darkness of the unknown region from +whence both blessing and cursing came, and to know if she had indeed +done something which should cause her sin to be visited on that +soft, sweet, innocent darling. + +If any one would teach her to read! If any one would explain to her +the hard words she heard in church or chapel, so that she might find +out the meaning of sin and godliness!--words that had only passed +over the surface of her mind till now! For her child's sake she +should like to do the will of God, if she only knew what that was, +and how to be worked out in her daily life. + +But there was no one she dared confess her ignorance to and ask +information from. Jeremiah Foster had spoken as if her child, sweet +little merry Bella, with a loving word and a kiss for every one, was +to suffer heavily for the just and true words her wronged and +indignant mother had spoken. Alice always spoke as if there were no +hope for her; and blamed her, nevertheless, for not using the means +of grace that it was not in her power to avail herself of. + +And Hester, that Sylvia would fain have loved for her uniform +gentleness and patience with all around her, seemed so cold in her +unruffled and undemonstrative behaviour; and moreover, Sylvia felt +that Hester blamed her perpetual silence regarding Philip's absence +without knowing how bitter a cause Sylvia had for casting him off. + +The only person who seemed to have pity upon her was Kester; and his +pity was shown in looks rather than words; for when he came to see +her, which he did from time to time, by a kind of mutual tacit +consent, they spoke but little of former days. + +He was still lodging with his sister, widow Dobson, working at odd +jobs, some of which took him into the country for weeks at a time. +But on his returns to Monkshaven he was sure to come and see her and +the little Bella; indeed, when his employment was in the immediate +neighbourhood of the town, he never allowed a week to pass away +without a visit. + +There was not much conversation between him and Sylvia at such +times. They skimmed over the surface of the small events in which +both took an interest; only now and then a sudden glance, a checked +speech, told each that there were deeps not forgotten, although they +were never mentioned. + +Twice Sylvia--below her breath--had asked Kester, just as she was +holding the door open for his departure, if anything had ever been +heard of Kinraid since his one night's visit to Monkshaven: each +time (and there was an interval of some months between the +inquiries) the answer had been simply, no. + +To no one else would Sylvia ever have named his name. But indeed she +had not the chance, had she wished it ever so much, of asking any +questions about him from any one likely to know. The Corneys had +left Moss Brow at Martinmas, and gone many miles away towards +Horncastle. Bessy Corney, it is true was married and left behind in +the neighbourhood; but with her Sylvia had never been intimate; and +what girlish friendship there might have been between them had +cooled very much at the time of Kinraid's supposed death three years +before. + +One day before Christmas in this year, 1798, Sylvia was called into +the shop by Coulson, who, with his assistant, was busy undoing the +bales of winter goods supplied to them from the West Riding, and +other places. He was looking at a fine Irish poplin dress-piece when +Sylvia answered to his call. + +'Here! do you know this again?' asked he, in the cheerful tone of +one sure of giving pleasure. + +'No! have I iver seen it afore?' + +'Not this, but one for all t' world like it.' + +She did not rouse up to much interest, but looked at it as if trying +to recollect where she could have seen its like. + +'My missus had one on at th' party at John Foster's last March, and +yo' admired it a deal. And Philip, he thought o' nothing but how he +could get yo' just such another, and he set a vast o' folk agait for +to meet wi' its marrow; and what he did just the very day afore he +went away so mysterious was to write through Dawson Brothers, o' +Wakefield, to Dublin, and order that one should be woven for yo'. +Jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give him t' exact colour.' + +Sylvia did not say anything but that it was very pretty, in a low +voice, and then she quickly left the shop, much to Coulson's +displeasure. + +All the afternoon she was unusually quiet and depressed. + +Alice Rose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched her with keen +eyes. + +At length, after one of Sylvia's deep, unconscious sighs, the old +woman spoke: + +'It's religion as must comfort thee, child, as it's done many a one +afore thee.' + +'How?' said Sylvia, looking up, startled to find herself an object +of notice. + +'How?' (The answer was not quite so ready as the precept had been.) +'Read thy Bible, and thou wilt learn.' + +'But I cannot read,' said Sylvia, too desperate any longer to +conceal her ignorance. + +'Not read! and thee Philip's wife as was such a great scholar! Of a +surety the ways o' this life are crooked! There was our Hester, as +can read as well as any minister, and Philip passes over her to go +and choose a young lass as cannot read her Bible.' + +'Was Philip and Hester----' + +Sylvia paused, for though a new curiosity had dawned upon her, she +did not know how to word her question. + +'Many a time and oft have I seen Hester take comfort in her Bible +when Philip was following after thee. She knew where to go for +consolation.' + +'I'd fain read,' said Sylvia, humbly, 'if anybody would learn me; +for perhaps it might do me good; I'm noane so happy.' + +Her eyes, as she looked up at Alice's stern countenance, were full +of tears. + +The old woman saw it, and was touched, although she did not +immediately show her sympathy. But she took her own time, and made +no reply. + +The next day, however, she bade Sylvia come to her, and then and +there, as if her pupil had been a little child, she began to teach +Sylvia to read the first chapter of Genesis; for all other reading +but the Scriptures was as vanity to her, and she would not +condescend to the weakness of other books. Sylvia was now, as ever, +slow at book-learning; but she was meek and desirous to be taught, +and her willingness in this respect pleased Alice, and drew her +singularly towards one who, from being a pupil, might become a +convert. + +All this time Sylvia never lost the curiosity that had been excited +by the few words Alice had let drop about Hester and Philip, and by +degrees she approached the subject again, and had the idea then +started confirmed by Alice, who had no scruple in using the past +experience of her own, of her daughter's, or of any one's life, as +an instrument to prove the vanity of setting the heart on anything +earthly. + +This knowledge, unsuspected before, sank deep into Sylvia's +thoughts, and gave her a strange interest in Hester--poor Hester, +whose life she had so crossed and blighted, even by the very +blighting of her own. She gave Hester her own former passionate +feelings for Kinraid, and wondered how she herself should have felt +towards any one who had come between her and him, and wiled his love +away. When she remembered Hester's unfailing sweetness and kindness +towards herself from the very first, she could better bear the +comparative coldness of her present behaviour. + +She tried, indeed, hard to win back the favour she had lost; but the +very means she took were blunders, and only made it seem to her as +if she could never again do right in Hester's eyes. + +For instance, she begged her to accept and wear the pretty poplin +gown which had been Philip's especial choice; feeling within herself +as if she should never wish to put it on, and as if the best thing +she could do with it was to offer it to Hester. But Hester rejected +the proffered gift with as much hardness of manner as she was +capable of assuming; and Sylvia had to carry it upstairs and lay it +by for the little daughter, who, Hester said, might perhaps learn to +value things that her father had given especial thought to. + +Yet Sylvia went on trying to win Hester to like her once more; it +was one of her great labours, and learning to read from Hester's +mother was another. + +Alice, indeed, in her solemn way, was becoming quite fond of Sylvia; +if she could not read or write, she had a deftness and gentleness of +motion, a capacity for the household matters which fell into her +department, that had a great effect on the old woman, and for her +dear mother's sake Sylvia had a stock of patient love ready in her +heart for all the aged and infirm that fell in her way. She never +thought of seeking them out, as she knew that Hester did; but then +she looked up to Hester as some one very remarkable for her +goodness. If only she could have liked her! + +Hester tried to do all she could for Sylvia; Philip had told her to +take care of his wife and child; but she had the conviction that +Sylvia had so materially failed in her duties as to have made her +husband an exile from his home--a penniless wanderer, wifeless and +childless, in some strange country, whose very aspect was +friendless, while the cause of all lived on in the comfortable home +where he had placed her, wanting for nothing--an object of interest +and regard to many friends--with a lovely little child to give her +joy for the present, and hope for the future; while he, the poor +outcast, might even lie dead by the wayside. How could Hester love +Sylvia? + +Yet they were frequent companions that ensuing spring. Hester was +not well; and the doctors said that the constant occupation in the +shop was too much for her, and that she must, for a time at least, +take daily walks into the country. + +Sylvia used to beg to accompany her; she and the little girl often +went with Hester up the valley of the river to some of the nestling +farms that were hidden in the more sheltered nooks--for Hester was +bidden to drink milk warm from the cow; and to go into the familiar +haunts about a farm was one of the few things in which Sylvia seemed +to take much pleasure. She would let little Bella toddle about while +Hester sate and rested: and she herself would beg to milk the cow +destined to give the invalid her draught. + +One May evening the three had been out on some such expedition; the +country side still looked gray and bare, though the leaves were +showing on the willow and blackthorn and sloe, and by the tinkling +runnels, making hidden music along the copse side, the pale delicate +primrose buds were showing amid their fresh, green, crinkled leaves. +The larks had been singing all the afternoon, but were now dropping +down into their nests in the pasture fields; the air had just the +sharpness in it which goes along with a cloudless evening sky at +that time of the year. + +But Hester walked homewards slowly and languidly, speaking no word. +Sylvia noticed this at first without venturing to speak, for Hester +was one who disliked having her ailments noticed. But after a while +Hester stood still in a sort of weary dreamy abstraction; and Sylvia +said to her, + +'I'm afeared yo're sadly tired. Maybe we've been too far.' + +Hester almost started. + +'No!' said she, 'it's only my headache which is worse to-night. It +has been bad all day; but since I came out it has felt just as if +there were great guns booming, till I could almost pray 'em to be +quiet. I am so weary o' th' sound.' + +She stepped out quickly towards home after she had said this, as if +she wished for neither pity nor comment on what she had said. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +THE RECOGNITION + + + + + +Far away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, great guns were +booming on that 7th of May, 1799. + +The Mediterranean came up with a long roar on a beach glittering +white with snowy sand, and the fragments of innumerable sea-shells, +delicate and shining as porcelain. Looking at that shore from the +sea, a long ridge of upland ground, beginning from an inland depth, +stretched far away into the ocean on the right, till it ended in a +great mountainous bluff, crowned with the white buildings of a +convent sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its base. + +In the clear eastern air, the different characters of the foliage +that clothed the sides of that sea-washed mountain might be +discerned from a long distance by the naked eye; the silver gray of +the olive-trees near its summit; the heavy green and bossy forms of +the sycamores lower down; broken here and there by a solitary +terebinth or ilex tree, of a deeper green and a wider spread; till +the eye fell below on the maritime plain, edged with the white +seaboard and the sandy hillocks; with here and there feathery +palm-trees, either isolated or in groups--motionless and distinct +against the hot purple air. + +Look again; a little to the left on the sea-shore there are the +white walls of a fortified town, glittering in sunlight, or black in +shadow. + +The fortifications themselves run out into the sea, forming a port +and a haven against the wild Levantine storms; and a lighthouse +rises out of the waves to guide mariners into safety. + +Beyond this walled city, and far away to the left still, there is +the same wide plain shut in by the distant rising ground, till the +upland circuit comes closing in to the north, and the great white +rocks meet the deep tideless ocean with its intensity of blue +colour. + +Above, the sky is literally purple with heat; and the pitiless light +smites the gazer's weary eye as it comes back from the white shore. +Nor does the plain country in that land offer the refuge and rest of +our own soft green. The limestone rock underlies the vegetation, and +gives a glittering, ashen hue to all the bare patches, and even to +the cultivated parts which are burnt up early in the year. In +spring-time alone does the country look rich and fruitful; then the +corn-fields of the plain show their capability of bearing, 'some +fifty, some an hundred fold'; down by the brook Kishon, flowing not +far from the base of the mountainous promontory to the south, there +grow the broad green fig-trees, cool and fresh to look upon; the +orchards are full of glossy-leaved cherry-trees; the tall amaryllis +puts forth crimson and yellow glories in the fields, rivalling the +pomp of King Solomon; the daisies and the hyacinths spread their +myriad flowers; the anemones, scarlet as blood, run hither and +thither over the ground like dazzling flames of fire. + +A spicy odour lingers in the heated air; it comes from the multitude +of aromatic flowers that blossom in the early spring. Later on they +will have withered and faded, and the corn will have been gathered, +and the deep green of the eastern foliage will have assumed a kind +of gray-bleached tint. + +Even now in May, the hot sparkle of the everlasting sea, the +terribly clear outline of all objects, whether near or distant, the +fierce sun right overhead, the dazzling air around, were +inexpressibly wearying to the English eyes that kept their skilled +watch, day and night, on the strongly-fortified coast-town that lay +out a little to the northward of where the British ships were +anchored. + +They had kept up a flanking fire for many days in aid of those +besieged in St Jean d'Acre; and at intervals had listened, +impatient, to the sound of the heavy siege guns, or the sharper +rattle of the French musketry. + +In the morning, on the 7th of May, a man at the masthead of the +_Tigre_ sang out that he saw ships in the offing; and in reply to +the signal that was hastily run up, he saw the distant vessels hoist +friendly flags. That May morning was a busy time. The besieged Turks +took heart of grace; the French outside, under the command of their +great general, made hasty preparations for a more vigorous assault +than all many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone before (for +the siege was now at its fifty-first day), in hopes of carrying the +town by storm before the reinforcement coming by sea could arrive; +and Sir Sidney Smith, aware of Buonaparte's desperate intention, +ordered all the men, both sailors and marines, that could be spared +from the necessity of keeping up a continual flanking fire from the +ships upon the French, to land, and assist the Turks and the British +forces already there in the defence of the old historic city. + +Lieutenant Kinraid, who had shared his captain's daring adventure +off the coast of France three years before, who had been a prisoner +with him and Westley Wright, in the Temple at Paris, and had escaped +with them, and, through Sir Sidney's earnest recommendation, been +promoted from being a warrant officer to the rank of lieutenant, +received on this day the honour from his admiral of being appointed +to an especial post of danger. His heart was like a war-horse, and +said, Ha, ha! as the boat bounded over the waves that were to land +him under the ancient machicolated walls where the Crusaders made +their last stand in the Holy Land. Not that Kinraid knew or cared +one jot about those gallant knights of old: all he knew was, that +the French, under Boney, were trying to take the town from the +Turks, and that his admiral said they must not, and so they should +not. + +He and his men landed on that sandy shore, and entered the town by +the water-port gate; he was singing to himself his own country +song,-- + +Weel may the keel row, the keel row, &C. + +and his men, with sailors' aptitude for music, caught up the air, +and joined in the burden with inarticulate sounds. + +So, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow streets of Acre, +hemmed in on either side by the white walls of Turkish houses, with +small grated openings high up, above all chance of peeping +intrusion. + +Here and there they met an ample-robed and turbaned Turk going along +with as much haste as his stately self-possession would allow. But +the majority of the male inhabitants were gathered together to +defend the breach, where the French guns thundered out far above the +heads of the sailors. + +They went along none the less merrily for the sound to Djezzar +Pacha's garden, where the old Turk sate on his carpet, beneath the +shade of a great terebinth tree, listening to the interpreter, who +made known to him the meaning of the eager speeches of Sir Sidney +Smith and the colonel of the marines. + +As soon as the admiral saw the gallant sailors of H.M.S. _Tigre_, he +interrupted the council of war without much ceremony, and going to +Kinraid, he despatched them, as before arranged, to the North +Ravelin, showing them the way with rapid, clear directions. + +Out of respect to him, they had kept silent while in the strange, +desolate garden; but once more in the streets, the old Newcastle +song rose up again till the men were, perforce, silenced by the +haste with which they went to the post of danger. + +It was three o'clock in the afternoon. For many a day these very men +had been swearing at the terrific heat at this hour--even when at +sea, fanned by the soft breeze; but now, in the midst of hot smoke, +with former carnage tainting the air, and with the rush and whizz of +death perpetually whistling in their ears, they were uncomplaining +and light-hearted. Many an old joke, and some new ones, came brave +and hearty, on their cheerful voices, even though the speaker was +veiled from sight in great clouds of smoke, cloven only by the +bright flames of death. + +A sudden message came; as many of the crew of the _Tigre_ as were +under Lieutenant Kinraid's command were to go down to the Mole, to +assist the new reinforcements (seen by the sailor from the masthead +at day-dawn), under command of Hassan Bey, to land at the Mole, +where Sir Sidney then was. + +Off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as before, though +two of their number lay silent for ever at the North +Ravelin--silenced in that one little half-hour. And one went along +with the rest, swearing lustily at his ill-luck in having his right +arm broken, but ready to do good business with his left. + +They helped the Turkish troops to land more with good-will than +tenderness; and then, led by Sir Sidney, they went under the shelter +of English guns to the fatal breach, so often assailed, so gallantly +defended, but never so fiercely contested as on this burning +afternoon. The ruins of the massive wall that here had been broken +down by the French, were used by them as stepping stones to get on a +level with the besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones which the +latter hurled down; nay, even the dead bodies of the morning's +comrades were made into ghastly stairs. + +When Djezzar Pacha heard that the British sailors were defending the +breach, headed by Sir Sidney Smith, he left his station in the +palace garden, gathered up his robes in haste, and hurried to the +breach; where, with his own hands, and with right hearty good-will, +he pulled the sailors down from the post of danger, saying that if +he lost his English friends he lost all! + +But little recked the crew of the _Tigre_ of the one old man--Pacha +or otherwise--who tried to hold them back from the fight; they were +up and at the French assailants clambering over the breach in an +instant; and so they went on, as if it were some game at play +instead of a deadly combat, until Kinraid and his men were called +off by Sir Sidney, as the reinforcement of Turkish troops under +Hassan Bey were now sufficient for the defence of that old breach in +the walls, which was no longer the principal object of the French +attack; for the besiegers had made a new and more formidable breach +by their incessant fire, knocking down whole streets of the city +walls. + +'Fight your best Kinraid!' said Sir Sidney; 'for there's Boney on +yonder hill looking at you.' + +And sure enough, on a rising ground, called Richard Coeur de Lion's +Mount, there was a half-circle of French generals, on horseback, all +deferentially attending to the motions, and apparently to the words, +of a little man in their centre; at whose bidding the aide-de-camp +galloped swift with messages to the more distant French camp. + +The two ravelins which Kinraid and his men had to occupy, for the +purpose of sending a flanking fire upon the enemy, were not ten +yards from that enemy's van. + +But at length there was a sudden rush of the French to that part of +the wall where they imagined they could enter unopposed. + +Surprised at this movement, Kinraid ventured out of the shelter of +the ravelin to ascertain the cause; he, safe and untouched during +that long afternoon of carnage, fell now, under a stray musket-shot, +and lay helpless and exposed upon the ground undiscerned by his men, +who were recalled to help in the hot reception which had been +planned for the French; who, descending the city walls into the +Pacha's garden, were attacked with sabre and dagger, and lay +headless corpses under the flowering rose-bushes, and by the +fountain side. + +Kinraid lay beyond the ravelins, many yards outside the city walls. + +He was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken his leg. Dead +bodies of Frenchmen lay strewn around him; no Englishman had +ventured out so far. + +All the wounded men that he could see were French; and many of +these, furious with pain, gnashed their teeth at him, and cursed him +aloud, till he thought that his best course was to assume the +semblance of death; for some among these men were still capable of +dragging themselves up to him, and by concentrating all their +failing energies into one blow, put him to a speedy end. + +The outlying pickets of the French army were within easy rifle shot; +and his uniform, although less conspicuous in colour than that of +the marines, by whose sides he had been fighting, would make him a +sure mark if he so much as moved his arm. Yet how he longed to turn, +if ever so slightly, so that the cruel slanting sun might not beat +full into his aching eyes. Fever, too, was coming upon him; the pain +in his leg was every moment growing more severe; the terrible thirst +of the wounded, added to the heat and fatigue of the day, made his +lips and tongue feel baked and dry, and his whole throat seemed +parched and wooden. Thoughts of other days, of cool Greenland seas, +where ice abounded, of grassy English homes, began to make the past +more real than the present. + +With a great effort he brought his wandering senses back; he knew +where he was now, and could weigh the chances of his life, which +were but small; the unwonted tears came to his eyes as he thought of +the newly-made wife in her English home, who might never know how he +died thinking of her. + +Suddenly he saw a party of English marines advance, under shelter of +the ravelin, to pick up the wounded, and bear them within the walls +for surgical help. They were so near he could see their faces, could +hear them speak; yet he durst not make any sign to them when he lay +within range of the French picket's fire. + +For one moment he could not resist raising his head, to give himself +a chance for life; before the unclean creatures that infest a camp +came round in the darkness of the night to strip and insult the dead +bodies, and to put to death such as had yet the breath of life +within them. But the setting sun came full into his face, and he saw +nothing of what he longed to see. + +He fell back in despair; he lay there to die. + +That strong clear sunbeam had wrought his salvation. + +He had been recognized as men are recognized when they stand in the +red glare of a house on fire; the same despair of help, of hopeless +farewell to life, stamped on their faces in blood-red light. + +One man left his fellows, and came running forwards, forwards in +among the enemy's wounded, within range of their guns; he bent down +over Kinraid; he seemed to understand without a word; he lifted him +up, carrying him like a child; and with the vehement energy that is +more from the force of will than the strength of body, he bore him +back to within the shelter of the ravelin--not without many shots +being aimed at them, one of which hit Kinraid in the fleshy part of +his arm. + +Kinraid was racked with agony from his dangling broken leg, and his +very life seemed leaving him; yet he remembered afterwards how the +marine recalled his fellows, and how, in the pause before they +returned, his face became like one formerly known to the sick senses +of Kinraid; yet it was too like a dream, too utterly improbable to +be real. + +Yet the few words this man said, as he stood breathless and alone by +the fainting Kinraid, fitted in well with the belief conjured up by +his personal appearance. He panted out,-- + +'I niver thought you'd ha' kept true to her!' + +And then the others came up; and while they were making a sling of +their belts, Kinraid fainted utterly away, and the next time that he +was fully conscious, he was lying in his berth in the _Tigre_, with +the ship surgeon setting his leg. After that he was too feverish for +several days to collect his senses. When he could first remember, +and form a judgment upon his recollections, he called the man +especially charged to attend upon him, and bade him go and make +inquiry in every possible manner for a marine named Philip Hepburn, +and, when he was found, to entreat him to come and see Kinraid. + +The sailor was away the greater part of the day, and returned +unsuccessful in his search; he had been from ship to ship, hither +and thither; he had questioned all the marines he had met with, no +one knew anything of any Philip Hepburn. + +Kinraid passed a miserably feverish night, and when the doctor +exclaimed the next morning at his retrogression, he told him, with +some irritation, of the ill-success of his servant; he accused the +man of stupidity, and wished fervently that he were able to go +himself. + +Partly to soothe him, the doctor promised that he would undertake +the search for Hepburn, and he engaged faithfully to follow all +Kinraid's eager directions; not to be satisfied with men's careless +words, but to look over muster-rolls and ships' books. + +He, too, brought the same answer, however unwillingly given. + +He had set out upon the search so confident of success, that he felt +doubly discomfited by failure. However, he had persuaded himself +that the lieutenant had been partially delirious from the effects of +his wound, and the power of the sun shining down just where he lay. +There had, indeed, been slight symptoms of Kinraid's having received +a sun-stroke; and the doctor dwelt largely on these in his endeavour +to persuade his patient that it was his imagination which had endued +a stranger with the lineaments of some former friend. + +Kinraid threw his arms out of bed with impatience at all this +plausible talk, which was even more irritating than the fact that +Hepburn was still undiscovered. + +'The man was no friend of mine; I was like to have killed him when +last I saw him. He was a shopkeeper in a country town in England. I +had seen little enough of him; but enough to make me able to swear +to him anywhere, even in a marine's uniform, and in this sweltering +country.' + +'Faces once seen, especially in excitement, are apt to return upon +the memory in cases of fever,' quoth the doctor, sententiously. + +The attendant sailor, reinstalled to some complacency by the failure +of another in the search in which he himself had been unsuccessful, +now put in his explanation. + +'Maybe it was a spirit. It's not th' first time as I've heared of a +spirit coming upon earth to save a man's life i' time o' need. My +father had an uncle, a west-country grazier. He was a-coming over +Dartmoor in Devonshire one moonlight night with a power o' money as +he'd got for his sheep at t' fair. It were stowed i' leather bags +under th' seat o' th' gig. It were a rough kind o' road, both as a +road and in character, for there'd been many robberies there of +late, and th' great rocks stood convenient for hiding-places. All at +once father's uncle feels as if some one were sitting beside him on +th' empty seat; and he turns his head and looks, and there he sees +his brother sitting--his brother as had been dead twelve year and +more. So he turns his head back again, eyes right, and never say a +word, but wonders what it all means. All of a sudden two fellows +come out upo' th' white road from some black shadow, and they +looked, and they let th' gig go past, father's uncle driving hard, +I'll warrant him. But for all that he heard one say to t' other, +"By----, there's _two_ on 'em!" Straight on he drove faster than +ever, till he saw th' far lights of some town or other. I forget its +name, though I've heared it many a time; and then he drew a long +breath, and turned his head to look at his brother, and ask him how +he'd managed to come out of his grave i' Barum churchyard, and th' +seat was as empty as it had been when he set out; and then he knew +that it were a spirit come to help him against th' men who thought +to rob him, and would likely enough ha' murdered him.' + +Kinraid had kept quiet through this story. But when the sailor began +to draw the moral, and to say, 'And I think I may make bold to say, +sir, as th' marine who carried you out o' th' Frenchy's gun-shot was +just a spirit come to help you,' he exclaimed impatiently, swearing +a great oath as he did so, 'It was no spirit, I tell you; and I was +in my full senses. It was a man named Philip Hepburn. He said words +to me, or over me, as none but himself would have said. Yet we hated +each other like poison; and I can't make out why he should be there +and putting himself in danger to save me. But so it was; and as you +can't find him, let me hear no more of your nonsense. It was him, +and not my fancy, doctor. It was flesh and blood, and not a spirit, +Jack. So get along with you, and leave me quiet.' + +All this time Stephen Freeman lay friendless, sick, and shattered, +on board the _Thesus_. + +He had been about his duty close to some shells that were placed on +her deck; a gay young midshipman was thoughtlessly striving to get +the fusee out of one of these by a mallet and spike-nail that lay +close at hand; and a fearful explosion ensued, in which the poor +marine, cleaning his bayonet near, was shockingly burnt and +disfigured, the very skin of all the lower part of his face being +utterly destroyed by gunpowder. They said it was a mercy that his +eyes were spared; but he could hardly feel anything to be a mercy, +as he lay tossing in agony, burnt by the explosion, wounded by +splinters, and feeling that he was disabled for life, if life itself +were preserved. Of all that suffered by that fearful accident (and +they were many) none was so forsaken, so hopeless, so desolate, as +the Philip Hepburn about whom such anxious inquiries were being made +at that very time. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +CONFIDENCES + + + + + +It was a little later on in that same summer that Mrs. Brunton came +to visit her sister Bessy. + +Bessy was married to a tolerably well-to-do farmer who lived at an +almost equal distance between Monkshaven and Hartswell; but from old +habit and convenience the latter was regarded as the Dawsons' +market-town; so Bessy seldom or never saw her old friends in +Monkshaven. + +But Mrs. Brunton was far too flourishing a person not to speak out +her wishes, and have her own way. She had no notion, she said, of +coming such a long journey only to see Bessy and her husband, and +not to have a sight of her former acquaintances at Monkshaven. She +might have added, that her new bonnet and cloak would be as good as +lost if it was not displayed among those who, knowing her as Molly +Corney, and being less fortunate in matrimony than she was, would +look upon it with wondering admiration, if not with envy. + +So one day farmer Dawson's market-cart deposited Mrs. Brunton in all +her bravery at the shop in the market-place, over which Hepburn and +Coulson's names still flourished in joint partnership. + +After a few words of brisk recognition to Coulson and Hester, Mrs +Brunton passed on into the parlour and greeted Sylvia with +boisterous heartiness. + +It was now four years and more since the friends had met; and each +secretly wondered how they had ever come to be friends. Sylvia had a +country, raw, spiritless look to Mrs. Brunton's eye; Molly was loud +and talkative, and altogether distasteful to Sylvia, trained in +daily companionship with Hester to appreciate soft slow speech, and +grave thoughtful ways. + +However, they kept up the forms of their old friendship, though +their hearts had drifted far apart. They sat hand in hand while each +looked at the other with eyes inquisitive as to the changes which +time had made. Molly was the first to speak. + +'Well, to be sure! how thin and pale yo've grown, Sylvia! Matrimony +hasn't agreed wi' yo' as well as it's done wi me. Brunton is allays +saying (yo' know what a man he is for his joke) that if he'd ha' +known how many yards o' silk I should ha' ta'en for a gown, he'd ha' +thought twice afore he'd ha' married me. Why, I've gained a matter +o' thirty pound o' flesh sin' I were married!' + +'Yo' do look brave and hearty!' said Sylvia, putting her sense of +her companion's capacious size and high colour into the prettiest +words she could. + +'Eh! Sylvia! but I know what it is,' said Molly, shaking her head. +'It's just because o' that husband o' thine as has gone and left +thee; thou's pining after him, and he's not worth it. Brunton said, +when he heared on it--I mind he was smoking at t' time, and he took +his pipe out of his mouth, and shook out t' ashes as grave as any +judge--"The man," says he, "as can desert a wife like Sylvia Robson +as was, deserves hanging!" That's what he says! Eh! Sylvia, but +speakin' o' hanging I was so grieved for yo' when I heared of yo'r +poor feyther! Such an end for a decent man to come to! Many a one +come an' called on me o' purpose to hear all I could tell 'em about +him!' + +'Please don't speak on it!' said Sylvia, trembling all over. + +'Well, poor creature, I wunnot. It is hard on thee, I grant. But to +give t' devil his due, it were good i' Hepburn to marry thee, and so +soon after there was a' that talk about thy feyther. Many a man +would ha' drawn back, choose howiver far they'd gone. I'm noane so +sure about Charley Kinraid. Eh, Sylvia! only think on his being +alive after all. I doubt if our Bessy would ha' wed Frank Dawson if +she'd known as he wasn't drowned. But it's as well she did, for +Dawson's a man o' property, and has getten twelve cows in his +cow-house, beside three right down good horses; and Kinraid were +allays a fellow wi' two strings to his bow. I've allays said and do +maintain, that he went on pretty strong wi' yo', Sylvie; and I will +say I think he cared more for yo' than for our Bessy, though it were +only yesterday at e'en she were standing out that he liked her +better than yo'. Yo'll ha' heared on his grand marriage?' + +'No!' said Sylvia, with eager painful curiosity. + +'No! It was in all t' papers! I wonder as yo' didn't see it. Wait a +minute! I cut it out o' t' _Gentleman's Magazine_, as Brunton bought +o' purpose, and put it i' my pocket-book when I were a-coming here: +I know I've got it somewheere.' + +She took out her smart crimson pocket-book, and rummaged in the +pocket until she produced a little crumpled bit of printed paper, +from which she read aloud, + +'On January the third, at St Mary Redcliffe, Bristol, Charles +Kinraid, Esq., lieutenant Royal Navy, to Miss Clarinda Jackson, with +a fortune of 10,000_l_.' + +'Theere!' said she, triumphantly, 'it's something as Brunton says, +to be cousin to that.' + +'Would yo' let me see it?' said Sylvia, timidly. + +Mrs. Brunton graciously consented; and Sylvia brought her newly +acquired reading-knowledge, hitherto principally exercised on the +Old Testament, to bear on these words. + +There was nothing wonderful in them, nothing that she might not have +expected; and yet the surprise turned her giddy for a moment or two. +She never thought of seeing him again, never. But to think of his +caring for another woman as much as he had done for her, nay, +perhaps more! + +The idea was irresistibly forced upon her that Philip would not have +acted so; it would have taken long years before he could have been +induced to put another on the throne she had once occupied. For the +first time in her life she seemed to recognize the real nature of +Philip's love. + +But she said nothing but 'Thank yo',' when she gave the scrap of +paper back to Molly Brunton. And the latter continued giving her +information about Kinraid's marriage. + +'He were down in t' west, Plymouth or somewheere, when he met wi' +her. She's no feyther; he'd been in t' sugar-baking business; but +from what Kinraid wrote to old Turner, th' uncle as brought him up +at Cullercoats, she's had t' best of edications: can play on t' +instrument and dance t' shawl dance; and Kinraid had all her money +settled on her, though she said she'd rayther give it all to him, +which I must say, being his cousin, was very pretty on her. He's +left her now, having to go off in t' _Tigre_, as is his ship, to t' +Mediterranean seas; and she's written to offer to come and see old +Turner, and make friends with his relations, and Brunton is going to +gi'e me a crimson satin as soon as we know for certain when she's +coming, for we're sure to be asked out to Cullercoats.' + +'I wonder if she's very pretty?' asked Sylvia, faintly, in the first +pause in this torrent of talk. + +'Oh! she's a perfect beauty, as I understand. There was a traveller +as come to our shop as had been at York, and knew some of her +cousins theere that were in t' grocery line--her mother was a York +lady--and they said she was just a picture of a woman, and iver so +many gentlemen had been wantin' to marry her, but she just waited +for Charley Kinraid, yo' see!' + +'Well, I hope they'll be happy; I'm sure I do!' said Sylvia. + +'That's just luck. Some folks is happy i' marriage, and some isn't. +It's just luck, and there's no forecasting it. Men is such +unaccountable animals, there's no prophesyin' upon 'em. Who'd ha' +thought of yo'r husband, him as was so slow and sure--steady Philip, +as we lasses used to ca' him--makin' a moonlight flittin', and +leavin' yo' to be a widow bewitched?' + +'He didn't go at night,' said Sylvia, taking the words 'moonlight +flitting' in their literal sense. + +'No! Well, I only said "moonlight flittin'" just because it come +uppermost and I knowed no better. Tell me all about it, Sylvie, for +I can't mak' it out from what Bessy says. Had he and yo' had +words?--but in course yo' had.' + +At this moment Hester came into the room; and Sylvia joyfully +availed herself of the pretext for breaking off the conversation +that had reached this painful and awkward point. She detained Hester +in the room for fear lest Mrs. Brunton should repeat her inquiry as +to how it all happened that Philip had gone away; but the presence +of a third person seemed as though it would be but little restraint +upon the inquisitive Molly, who repeatedly bore down upon the same +questions till she nearly drove Sylvia distracted, between her +astonishment at the news of Kinraid's marriage; her wish to be alone +and quiet, so as to realize the full meaning of that piece of +intelligence; her desire to retain Hester in the conversation; her +efforts to prevent Molly's recurrence to the circumstances of +Philip's disappearance, and the longing--more vehement every +minute--for her visitor to go away and leave her in peace. She +became so disturbed with all these thoughts and feelings that she +hardly knew what she was saying, and assented or dissented to +speeches without there being either any reason or truth in her +words. + +Mrs. Brunton had arranged to remain with Sylvia while the horse +rested, and had no compunction about the length of her visit. She +expected to be asked to tea, as Sylvia found out at last, and this +she felt would be the worst of all, as Alice Rose was not one to +tolerate the coarse, careless talk of such a woman as Mrs. Brunton +without uplifting her voice in many a testimony against it. Sylvia +sate holding Hester's gown tight in order to prevent her leaving the +room, and trying to arrange her little plans so that too much +discordance should not arise to the surface. Just then the door +opened, and little Bella came in from the kitchen in all the pretty, +sturdy dignity of two years old, Alice following her with careful +steps, and protecting, outstretched arms, a slow smile softening the +sternness of her grave face; for the child was the unconscious +darling of the household, and all eyes softened into love as they +looked on her. She made straight for her mother with something +grasped in her little dimpled fist; but half-way across the room she +seemed to have become suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger, +and she stopped short, fixing her serious eyes full on Mrs. Brunton, +as if to take in her appearance, nay, as if to penetrate down into +her very real self, and then, stretching out her disengaged hand, +the baby spoke out the words that had been hovering about her +mother's lips for an hour past. + +'Do away!' said Bella, decisively. + +'What a perfect love!' said Mrs. Brunton, half in real admiration, +half in patronage. As she spoke, she got up and went towards the +child, as if to take her up. + +'Do away! do away!' cried Bella, in shrill affright at this +movement. + +'Dunnot,' said Sylvia; 'she's shy; she doesn't know strangers.' + +But Mrs. Brunton had grasped the struggling, kicking child by this +time, and her reward for this was a vehement little slap in the +face. + +'Yo' naughty little spoilt thing!' said she, setting Bella down in a +hurry. 'Yo' deserve a good whipping, yo' do, and if yo' were mine +yo' should have it.' + +Sylvia had no need to stand up for the baby who had run to her arms, +and was soothing herself with sobbing on her mother's breast; for +Alice took up the defence. + +'The child said, as plain as words could say, "go away," and if thou +wouldst follow thine own will instead of heeding her wish, thou mun +put up with the wilfulness of the old Adam, of which it seems to me +thee hast getten thy share at thirty as well as little Bella at +two.' + +'Thirty!' said Mrs. Brunton, now fairly affronted. 'Thirty! why, +Sylvia, yo' know I'm but two years older than yo'; speak to that +woman an' tell her as I'm only four-and-twenty. Thirty, indeed!' + +'Molly's but four-and-twenty,' said Sylvia, in a pacificatory tone. + +'Whether she be twenty, or thirty, or forty, is alike to me,' said +Alice. 'I meant no harm. I meant but for t' say as her angry words +to the child bespoke her to be one of the foolish. I know not who +she is, nor what her age may be.' + +'She's an old friend of mine,' said Sylvia. 'She's Mrs. Brunton now, +but when I knowed her she was Molly Corney.' + +'Ay! and yo' were Sylvia Robson, and as bonny and light-hearted a +lass as any in a' t' Riding, though now yo're a poor widow +bewitched, left wi' a child as I mustn't speak a word about, an' +living wi' folk as talk about t' old Adam as if he wasn't dead and +done wi' long ago! It's a change, Sylvia, as makes my heart ache for +yo', to think on them old days when yo' were so thought on yo' might +have had any man, as Brunton often says; it were a great mistake as +yo' iver took up wi' yon man as has run away. But seven year '11 +soon be past fro' t' time he went off, and yo'll only be +six-and-twenty then; and there'll be a chance of a better husband +for yo' after all, so keep up yo'r heart, Sylvia.' + +Molly Brunton had put as much venom as she knew how into this +speech, meaning it as a vengeful payment for the supposition of her +being thirty, even more than for the reproof for her angry words +about the child. She thought that Alice Rose must be either mother +or aunt to Philip, from the serious cast of countenance that was +remarkable in both; and she rather exulted in the allusion to a +happier second marriage for Sylvia, with which she had concluded her +speech. It roused Alice, however, as effectually as if she had been +really a blood relation to Philip; but for a different reason. She +was not slow to detect the intentional offensiveness to herself in +what had been said; she was indignant at Sylvia for suffering the +words spoken to pass unanswered; but in truth they were too much in +keeping with Molly Brunton's character to make as much impression on +Sylvia as they did on a stranger; and besides, she felt as if the +less reply Molly received, the less likely would it be that she +would go on in the same strain. So she coaxed and chattered to her +child and behaved like a little coward in trying to draw out of the +conversation, while at the same time listening attentively. + +'As for Sylvia Hepburn as was Sylvia Robson, she knows my mind,' +said Alice, in grim indignation. 'She's humbling herself now, I +trust and pray, but she was light-minded and full of vanity when +Philip married her, and it might ha' been a lift towards her +salvation in one way; but it pleased the Lord to work in a different +way, and she mun wear her sackcloth and ashes in patience. So I'll +say naught more about her. But for him as is absent, as thee hast +spoken on so lightly and reproachfully, I'd have thee to know he +were one of a different kind to any thee ever knew, I reckon. If he +were led away by a pretty face to slight one as was fitter for him, +and who had loved him as the apple of her eye, it's him as is +suffering for it, inasmuch as he's a wanderer from his home, and an +outcast from wife and child.' + +To the surprise of all, Molly's words of reply were cut short even +when they were on her lips, by Sylvia. Pale, fire-eyed, and excited, +with Philip's child on one arm, and the other stretched out, she +said,-- + +'Noane can tell--noane know. No one shall speak a judgment 'twixt +Philip and me. He acted cruel and wrong by me. But I've said my +words to him hissel', and I'm noane going to make any plaint to +others; only them as knows should judge. And it's not fitting, it's +not' (almost sobbing), 'to go on wi' talk like this afore me.' + +The two--for Hester, who was aware that her presence had only been +desired by Sylvia as a check to an unpleasant _tete-a-tete_ +conversation, had slipped back to her business as soon as her mother +came in--the two looked with surprise at Sylvia; her words, her +whole manner, belonged to a phase of her character which seldom came +uppermost, and which had not been perceived by either of them +before. + +Alice Rose, though astonished, rather approved of Sylvia's speech; +it showed that she had more serious thought and feeling on the +subject than the old woman had given her credit for; her general +silence respecting her husband's disappearance had led Alice to +think that she was too childish to have received any deep impression +from the event. Molly Brunton gave vent to her opinion on Sylvia's +speech in the following words:-- + +'Hoighty-toighty! That tells tales, lass. If yo' treated steady +Philip to many such looks an' speeches as yo'n given us now, it's +easy t' see why he took hisself off. Why, Sylvia, I niver saw it in +yo' when yo' was a girl; yo're grown into a regular little vixen, +theere wheere yo' stand!' + +Indeed she did look defiant, with the swift colour flushing her +cheeks to crimson on its return, and the fire in her eyes not yet +died away. But at Molly's jesting words she sank back into her usual +look and manner, only saying quietly,-- + +'It's for noane to say whether I'm vixen or not, as doesn't know th' +past things as is buried in my heart. But I cannot hold them as my +friends as go on talking on either my husband or me before my very +face. What he was, I know; and what I am, I reckon he knows. And now +I'll go hurry tea, for yo'll be needing it, Molly!' + +The last clause of this speech was meant to make peace; but Molly +was in twenty minds as to whether she should accept the olive-branch +or not. Her temper, however, was of that obtuse kind which is not +easily ruffled; her mind, stagnant in itself, enjoyed excitement +from without; and her appetite was invariably good, so she stayed, +in spite of the inevitable _tete-a-tete_ with Alice. The latter, +however, refused to be drawn into conversation again; replying to +Mrs. Brunton's speeches with a curt yes or no, when, indeed, she +replied at all. + +When all were gathered at tea, Sylvia was quite calm again; rather +paler than usual, and very attentive and subduced in her behaviour +to Alice; she would evidently fain have been silent, but as Molly +was her own especial guest, that could not be, so all her endeavours +went towards steering the conversation away from any awkward points. +But each of the four, let alone little Bella, was thankful when the +market-cart drew up at the shop door, that was to take Mrs. Brunton +back to her sister's house. + +When she was fairly off, Alice Rose opened her mouth in strong +condemnation; winding up with-- + +'And if aught in my words gave thee cause for offence, Sylvia, it +was because my heart rose within me at the kind of talk thee and she +had been having about Philip; and her evil and light-minded counsel +to thee about waiting seven years, and then wedding another.' + +Hard as these words may seem when repeated, there was something of a +nearer approach to an apology in Mrs. Rose's manner than Sylvia had +ever seen in it before. She was silent for a few moments, then she +said,-- + +'I ha' often thought of telling yo' and Hester, special-like, when +yo've been so kind to my little Bella, that Philip an' me could +niver come together again; no, not if he came home this very +night----' + +She would have gone on speaking, but Hester interrupted her with a +low cry of dismay. + +Alice said,-- + +'Hush thee, Hester. It's no business o' thine. Sylvia Hepburn, +thou'rt speaking like a silly child.' + +'No. I'm speaking like a woman; like a woman as finds out she's been +cheated by men as she trusted, and as has no help for it. I'm noane +going to say any more about it. It's me as has been wronged, and as +has to bear it: only I thought I'd tell yo' both this much, that yo' +might know somewhat why he went away, and how I said my last word +about it.' + +So indeed it seemed. To all questions and remonstrances from Alice, +Sylvia turned a deaf ear. She averted her face from Hester's sad, +wistful looks; only when they were parting for the night, at the top +of the little staircase, she turned, and putting her arms round +Hester's neck she laid her head on her neck, and whispered,-- + +'Poor Hester--poor, poor Hester! if yo' an' he had but been married +together, what a deal o' sorrow would ha' been spared to us all!' + +Hester pushed her away as she finished these words; looked +searchingly into her face, her eyes, and then followed Sylvia into +her room, where Bella lay sleeping, shut the door, and almost knelt +down at Sylvia's feet, clasping her, and hiding her face in the +folds of the other's gown. + +'Sylvia, Sylvia,' she murmured, 'some one has told you--I thought no +one knew--it's no sin--it's done away with now--indeed it is--it was +long ago--before yo' were married; but I cannot forget. It was a +shame, perhaps, to have thought on it iver, when he niver thought o' +me; but I niver believed as any one could ha' found it out. I'm just +fit to sink into t' ground, what wi' my sorrow and my shame.' + +Hester was stopped by her own rising sobs, immediately she was in +Sylvia's arms. Sylvia was sitting on the ground holding her, and +soothing her with caresses and broken words. + +'I'm allays saying t' wrong things,' said she. 'It seems as if I +were all upset to-day; and indeed I am;' she added, alluding to the +news of Kinraid's marriage she had yet to think upon. + +'But it wasn't yo', Hester: it were nothing yo' iver said, or did, +or looked, for that matter. It were yo'r mother as let it out.' + +'Oh, mother! mother!' wailed out Hester; 'I niver thought as any one +but God would ha' known that I had iver for a day thought on his +being more to me than a brother.' + +Sylvia made no reply, only went on stroking Hester's smooth brown +hair, off which her cap had fallen. Sylvia was thinking how strange +life was, and how love seemed to go all at cross purposes; and was +losing herself in bewilderment at the mystery of the world; she was +almost startled when Hester rose up, and taking Sylvia's hands in +both of hers, and looking solemnly at her, said,-- + +'Sylvia, yo' know what has been my trouble and my shame, and I'm +sure yo're sorry for me--for I will humble myself to yo', and own +that for many months before yo' were married, I felt my +disappointment like a heavy burden laid on me by day and by night; +but now I ask yo', if yo've any pity for me for what I went through, +or if yo've any love for me because of yo'r dead mother's love for +me, or because of any fellowship, or daily breadliness between us +two,--put the hard thoughts of Philip away from out yo'r heart; he +may ha' done yo' wrong, anyway yo' think that he has; I niver knew +him aught but kind and good; but if he comes back from wheriver in +th' wide world he's gone to (and there's not a night but I pray God +to keep him, and send him safe back), yo' put away the memory of +past injury, and forgive it all, and be, what yo' can be, Sylvia, if +you've a mind to, just the kind, good wife he ought to have.' + +'I cannot; yo' know nothing about it, Hester.' + +'Tell me, then,' pleaded Hester. + +'No!' said Sylvia, after a moment's hesitation; 'I'd do a deal for +yo', I would, but I daren't forgive Philip, even if I could; I took +a great oath again' him. Ay, yo' may look shocked at me, but it's +him as yo' ought for to be shocked at if yo' knew all. I said I'd +niver forgive him; I shall keep to my word.' + +'I think I'd better pray for his death, then,' said Hester, +hopelessly, and almost bitterly, loosing her hold of Sylvia's hands. + +'If it weren't for baby theere, I could think as it were my death as +'ud be best. Them as one thinks t' most on, forgets one soonest.' + +It was Kinraid to whom she was alluding; but Hester did not +understand her; and after standing for a moment in silence, she +kissed her, and left her for the night. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER + + + + + +After this agitation, and these partial confidences, no more was +said on the subject of Philip for many weeks. They avoided even the +slightest allusion to him; and none of them knew how seldom or how +often he might be present in the minds of the others. + +One day the little Bella was unusually fractious with some slight +childish indisposition, and Sylvia was obliged to have recourse to a +never-failing piece of amusement; namely, to take the child into the +shop, when the number of new, bright-coloured articles was sure to +beguile the little girl out of her fretfulness. She was walking +along the high terrace of the counter, kept steady by her mother's +hand, when Mr. Dawson's market-cart once more stopped before the +door. But it was not Mrs. Brunton who alighted now; it was a very +smartly-dressed, very pretty young lady, who put one dainty foot +before the other with care, as if descending from such a primitive +vehicle were a new occurrence in her life. Then she looked up at the +names above the shop-door, and after ascertaining that this was +indeed the place she desired to find, she came in blushing. + +'Is Mrs. Hepburn at home?' she asked of Hester, whose position in the +shop brought her forwards to receive the customers, while Sylvia +drew Bella out of sight behind some great bales of red flannel. + +'Can I see her?' the sweet, south-country voice went on, still +addressing Hester. Sylvia heard the inquiry, and came forwards, with +a little rustic awkwardness, feeling both shy and curious. + +'Will yo' please walk this way, ma'am?' said she, leading her +visitor back into her own dominion of the parlour, and leaving Bella +to Hester's willing care. + +'You don't know me!' said the pretty young lady, joyously. 'But I +think you knew my husband. I am Mrs. Kinraid!' + +A sob of surprise rose to Sylvia's lips--she choked it down, +however, and tried to conceal any emotion she might feel, in placing +a chair for her visitor, and trying to make her feel welcome, +although, if the truth must be told, Sylvia was wondering all the +time why her visitor came, and how soon she would go. + +'You knew Captain Kinraid, did you not?' said the young lady, with +innocent inquiry; to which Sylvia's lips formed the answer, 'Yes,' +but no clear sound issued therefrom. + +'But I know your husband knew the captain; is he at home yet? Can I +speak to him? I do so want to see him.' + +Sylvia was utterly bewildered; Mrs. Kinraid, this pretty, joyous, +prosperous little bird of a woman, Philip, Charley's wife, what +could they have in common? what could they know of each other? All +she could say in answer to Mrs. Kinraid's eager questions, and still +more eager looks, was, that her husband was from home, had been long +from home: she did not know where he was, she did not know when he +would come back. + +Mrs. Kinraid's face fell a little, partly from her own real +disappointment, partly out of sympathy with the hopeless, +indifferent tone of Sylvia's replies. + +'Mrs. Dawson told me he had gone away rather suddenly a year ago, but +I thought he might be come home by now. I am expecting the captain +early next month. Oh! how I should have liked to see Mr. Hepburn, and +to thank him for saving the captain's life!' + +'What do yo' mean?' asked Sylvia, stirred out of all assumed +indifference. 'The captain! is that' (not 'Charley', she could not +use that familiar name to the pretty young wife before her) 'yo'r +husband?' + +'Yes, you knew him, didn't you? when he used to be staying with Mr +Corney, his uncle?' + +'Yes, I knew him; but I don't understand. Will yo' please to tell me +all about it, ma'am?' said Sylvia, faintly. + +'I thought your husband would have told you all about it; I hardly +know where to begin. You know my husband is a sailor?' + +Sylvia nodded assent, listening greedily, her heart beating thick +all the time. + +'And he's now a Commander in the Royal Navy, all earned by his own +bravery! Oh! I am so proud of him!' + +So could Sylvia have been if she had been his wife; as it was, she +thought how often she had felt sure that he would be a great man +some day. + +'And he has been at the siege of Acre.' + +Sylvia looked perplexed at these strange words, and Mrs. Kinraid +caught the look. + +'St Jean d'Acre, you know--though it's fine saying "you know", when +I didn't know a bit about it myself till the captain's ship was +ordered there, though I was the head girl at Miss Dobbin's in the +geography class--Acre is a seaport town, not far from Jaffa, which +is the modern name for Joppa, where St Paul went to long ago; you've +read of that, I'm sure, and Mount Carmel, where the prophet Elijah +was once, all in Palestine, you know, only the Turks have got it +now?' + +'But I don't understand yet,' said Sylvia, plaintively; 'I daresay +it's all very true about St Paul, but please, ma'am, will yo' tell +me about yo'r husband and mine--have they met again?' + +'Yes, at Acre, I tell you,' said Mrs. Kinraid, with pretty petulance. +'The Turks held the town, and the French wanted to take it; and we, +that is the British Fleet, wouldn't let them. So Sir Sidney Smith, a +commodore and a great friend of the captain's, landed in order to +fight the French; and the captain and many of the sailors landed +with him; and it was burning hot; and the poor captain was wounded, +and lay a-dying of pain and thirst within the enemy's--that is the +French--fire; so that they were ready to shoot any one of his own +side who came near him. They thought he was dead himself, you see, +as he was very near; and would have been too, if your husband had +not come out of shelter, and taken him up in his arms or on his back +(I couldn't make out which), and carried him safe within the walls.' + +'It couldn't have been Philip,' said Sylvia, dubiously. + +'But it was. The captain says so; and he's not a man to be mistaken. +I thought I'd got his letter with me; and I would have read you a +part of it, but I left it at Mrs. Dawson's in my desk; and I can't +send it to you,' blushing as she remembered certain passages in +which 'the captain' wrote very much like a lover, 'or else I would. +But you may be quite sure it was your husband that ventured into all +that danger to save his old friend's life, or the captain would not +have said so.' + +'But they weren't--they weren't--not to call great friends.' + +'I wish I'd got the letter here; I can't think how I could be so +stupid; I think I can almost remember the very words, though--I've +read them over so often. He says, "Just as I gave up all hope, I saw +one Philip Hepburn, a man whom I had known at Monkshaven, and whom I +had some reason to remember well"--(I'm sure he says so--"remember +well"), "he saw me too, and came at the risk of his life to where I +lay. I fully expected he would be shot down; and I shut my eyes not +to see the end of my last chance. The shot rained about him, and I +think he was hit; but he took me up and carried me under cover." I'm +sure he says that, I've read it over so often; and he goes on and +says how he hunted for Mr. Hepburn all through the ships, as soon as +ever he could; but he could hear nothing of him, either alive or +dead. Don't go so white, for pity's sake!' said she, suddenly +startled by Sylvia's blanching colour. 'You see, because he couldn't +find him alive is no reason for giving him up as dead; because his +name wasn't to be found on any of the ships' books; so the captain +thinks he must have been known by a different name to his real one. +Only he says he should like to have seen him to have thanked him; +and he says he would give a deal to know what has become of him; and +as I was staying two days at Mrs. Dawson's, I told them I must come +over to Monkshaven, if only for five minutes, just to hear if your +good husband was come home, and to shake his hands, that helped to +save my own dear captain.' + +'I don't think it could have been Philip,' reiterated Sylvia. + +'Why not?' asked her visitor; 'you say you don't know where he is; +why mightn't he have been there where the captain says he was?' + +'But he wasn't a sailor, nor yet a soldier.' + +'Oh! but he was. I think somewhere the captain calls him a marine; +that's neither one nor the other, but a little of both. He'll be +coming home some day soon; and then you'll see!' + +Alice Rose came in at this minute, and Mrs. Kinraid jumped to the +conclusion that she was Sylvia's mother, and in her overflowing +gratitude and friendliness to all the family of him who had 'saved +the captain' she went forward, and shook the old woman's hand in +that pleasant confiding way that wins all hearts. + +'Here's your daughter, ma'am!' said she to the half-astonished, +half-pleased Alice. 'I'm Mrs. Kinraid, the wife of the captain that +used to be in these parts, and I'm come to bring her news of her +husband, and she don't half believe me, though it's all to his +credit, I'm sure.' + +Alice looked so perplexed that Sylvia felt herself bound to explain. + +'She says he's either a soldier or a sailor, and a long way off at +some place named in t' Bible.' + +'Philip Hepburn led away to be a soldier!' said she, 'who had once +been a Quaker?' + +'Yes, and a very brave one too, and one that it would do my heart +good to look upon,' exclaimed Mrs. Kinraid. 'He's been saving my +husband's life in the Holy Land, where Jerusalem is, you know.' + +'Nay!' said Alice, a little scornfully. 'I can forgive Sylvia for +not being over keen to credit thy news. Her man of peace becoming a +man of war; and suffered to enter Jerusalem, which is a heavenly and +a typical city at this time; while me, as is one of the elect, is +obliged to go on dwelling in Monkshaven, just like any other body.' + +'Nay, but,' said Mrs. Kinraid, gently, seeing she was touching on +delicate ground, 'I did not say he had gone to Jerusalem, but my +husband saw him in those parts, and he was doing his duty like a +brave, good man; ay, and more than his duty; and, you may take my +word for it, he'll be at home some day soon, and all I beg is that +you'll let the captain and me know, for I'm sure if we can, we'll +both come and pay our respects to him. And I'm very glad I've seen +you,' said she, rising to go, and putting out her hand to shake that +of Sylvia; 'for, besides being Hepburn's wife, I'm pretty sure I've +heard the captain speak of you; and if ever you come to Bristol I +hope you'll come and see us on Clifton Downs.' + +She went away, leaving Sylvia almost stunned by the new ideas +presented to her. Philip a soldier! Philip in a battle, risking his +life. Most strange of all, Charley and Philip once more meeting +together, not as rivals or as foes, but as saviour and saved! Add to +all this the conviction, strengthened by every word that happy, +loving wife had uttered, that Kinraid's old, passionate love for +herself had faded away and vanished utterly: its very existence +apparently blotted out of his memory. She had torn up her love for +him by the roots, but she felt as if she could never forget that it +had been. + +Hester brought back Bella to her mother. She had not liked to +interrupt the conversation with the strange lady before; and now she +found her mother in an obvious state of excitement; Sylvia quieter +than usual. + +'That was Kinraid's wife, Hester! Him that was th' specksioneer as +made such a noise about t' place at the time of Darley's death. He's +now a captain--a navy captain, according to what she says. And she'd +fain have us believe that Philip is abiding in all manner of +Scripture places; places as has been long done away with, but the +similitude whereof is in the heavens, where the elect shall one day +see them. And she says Philip is there, and a soldier, and that he +saved her husband's life, and is coming home soon. I wonder what +John and Jeremiah 'll say to his soldiering then? It'll noane be to +their taste, I'm thinking.' + +This was all very unintelligible to Hester, and she would dearly +have liked to question Sylvia; but Sylvia sate a little apart, with +Bella on her knee, her cheek resting on her child's golden curls, +and her eyes fixed and almost trance-like, as if she were seeing +things not present. + +So Hester had to be content with asking her mother as many +elucidatory questions as she could; and after all did not gain a +very clear idea of what had really been said by Mrs. Kinraid, as her +mother was more full of the apparent injustice of Philip's being +allowed the privilege of treading on holy ground--if, indeed, that +holy ground existed on this side heaven, which she was inclined to +dispute--than to confine herself to the repetition of words, or +narration of facts. + +Suddenly Sylvia roused herself to a sense of Hester's deep interest +and balked inquiries, and she went over the ground rapidly. + +'Yo'r mother says right--she is his wife. And he's away fighting; +and got too near t' French as was shooting and firing all round him; +and just then, according to her story, Philip saw him, and went +straight into t' midst o' t' shots, and fetched him out o' danger. +That's what she says, and upholds.' + +'And why should it not be?' asked Hester, her cheek flushing. + +But Sylvia only shook her head, and said, + +'I cannot tell. It may be so. But they'd little cause to be friends, +and it seems all so strange--Philip a soldier, and them meeting +theere after all!' + +Hester laid the story of Philip's bravery to her heart--she fully +believed in it. Sylvia pondered it more deeply still; the causes for +her disbelief, or, at any rate, for her wonder, were unknown to +Hester! Many a time she sank to sleep with the picture of the event +narrated by Mrs. Kinraid as present to her mind as her imagination or +experience could make it: first one figure prominent, then another. +Many a morning she wakened up, her heart beating wildly, why, she +knew not, till she shuddered at the remembrance of the scenes that +had passed in her dreams: scenes that might be acted in reality that +very day; for Philip might come back, and then? + +And where was Philip all this time, these many weeks, these heavily +passing months? + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +THE BEDESMAN OF ST SEPULCHRE + + + + + +Philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship. If his heart had +been light, he might have rallied sooner; but he was so depressed he +did not care to live. His shattered jaw-bone, his burnt and +blackened face, his many injuries of body, were torture to both his +physical frame, and his sick, weary heart. No more chance for him, +if indeed there ever had been any, of returning gay and gallant, and +thus regaining his wife's love. This had been his poor, foolish +vision in the first hour of his enlistment; and the vain dream had +recurred more than once in the feverish stage of excitement which +the new scenes into which he had been hurried as a recruit had +called forth. But that was all over now. He knew that it was the +most unlikely thing in the world to have come to pass; and yet those +were happy days when he could think of it as barely possible. Now +all he could look forward to was disfigurement, feebleness, and the +bare pittance that keeps pensioners from absolute want. + +Those around him were kind enough to him in their fashion, and +attended to his bodily requirements; but they had no notion of +listening to any revelations of unhappiness, if Philip had been the +man to make confidences of that kind. As it was, he lay very still +in his berth, seldom asking for anything, and always saying he was +better, when the ship-surgeon came round with his daily inquiries. +But he did not care to rally, and was rather sorry to find that his +case was considered so interesting in a surgical point of view, that +he was likely to receive a good deal more than the average amount of +attention. Perhaps it was owing to this that he recovered at all. +The doctors said it was the heat that made him languid, for that his +wounds and burns were all doing well at last; and by-and-by they +told him they had ordered him 'home'. His pulse sank under the +surgeon's finger at the mention of the word; but he did not say a +word. He was too indifferent to life and the world to have a will; +otherwise they might have kept their pet patient a little longer +where he was. + +Slowly passing from ship to ship as occasion served; resting here +and there in garrison hospitals, Philip at length reached Portsmouth +on the evening of a September day in 1799. The transport-ship in +which he was, was loaded with wounded and invalided soldiers and +sailors; all who could manage it in any way struggled on deck to +catch the first view of the white coasts of England. One man lifted +his arm, took off his cap, and feebly waved it aloft, crying, 'Old +England for ever!' in a faint shrill voice, and then burst into +tears and sobbed aloud. Others tried to pipe up 'Rule Britannia', +while more sate, weak and motionless, looking towards the shores +that once, not so long ago, they never thought to see again. Philip +was one of these; his place a little apart from the other men. He +was muffled up in a great military cloak that had been given him by +one of his officers; he felt the September breeze chill after his +sojourn in a warmer climate, and in his shattered state of health. + +As the ship came in sight of Portsmouth harbour, the signal flags +ran up the ropes; the beloved Union Jack floated triumphantly over +all. Return signals were made from the harbour; on board all became +bustle and preparation for landing; while on shore there was the +evident movement of expectation, and men in uniform were seen +pressing their way to the front, as if to them belonged the right of +reception. They were the men from the barrack hospital, that had +been signalled for, come down with ambulance litters and other marks +of forethought for the sick and wounded, who were returning to the +country for which they had fought and suffered. + +With a dash and a great rocking swing the vessel came up to her +appointed place, and was safely moored. Philip sat still, almost as +if he had no part in the cries of welcome, the bustling care, the +loud directions that cut the air around him, and pierced his nerves +through and through. But one in authority gave the order; and +Philip, disciplined to obedience, rose to find his knapsack and +leave the ship. Passive as he seemed to be, he had his likings for +particular comrades; there was one especially, a man as different +from Philip as well could be, to whom the latter had always attached +himself; a merry fellow from Somersetshire, who was almost always +cheerful and bright, though Philip had overheard the doctors say he +would never be the man he was before he had that shot through the +side. This marine would often sit making his fellows laugh, and +laughing himself at his own good-humoured jokes, till so terrible a +fit of coughing came on that those around him feared he would die in +the paroxysm. After one of these fits he had gasped out some words, +which led Philip to question him a little; and it turned out that in +the quiet little village of Potterne, far inland, nestled beneath +the high stretches of Salisbury Plain, he had a wife and a child, a +little girl, just the same age even to a week as Philip's own little +Bella. It was this that drew Philip towards the man; and this that +made Philip wait and go ashore along with the poor consumptive +marine. + +The litters had moved off towards the hospital, the sergeant in +charge had given his words of command to the remaining invalids, who +tried to obey them to the best of their power, falling into +something like military order for their march; but soon, very soon, +the weakest broke step, and lagged behind; and felt as if the rough +welcomes and rude expressions of sympathy from the crowd around were +almost too much for them. Philip and his companion were about +midway, when suddenly a young woman with a child in her arms forced +herself through the people, between the soldiers who kept pressing +on either side, and threw herself on the neck of Philip's friend. + +'Oh, Jem!' she sobbed, 'I've walked all the road from Potterne. I've +never stopped but for food and rest for Nelly, and now I've got you +once again, I've got you once again, bless God for it!' + +She did not seem to see the deadly change that had come over her +husband since she parted with him a ruddy young labourer; she had +got him once again, as she phrased it, and that was enough for her; +she kissed his face, his hands, his very coat, nor would she be +repulsed from walking beside him and holding his hand, while her +little girl ran along scared by the voices and the strange faces, +and clinging to her mammy's gown. + +Jem coughed, poor fellow! he coughed his churchyard cough; and +Philip bitterly envied him--envied his life, envied his approaching +death; for was he not wrapped round with that woman's tender love, +and is not such love stronger than death? Philip had felt as if his +own heart was grown numb, and as though it had changed to a cold +heavy stone. But at the contrast of this man's lot to his own, he +felt that he had yet the power of suffering left to him. + +The road they had to go was full of people, kept off in some measure +by the guard of soldiers. All sorts of kindly speeches, and many a +curious question, were addressed to the poor invalids as they walked +along. Philip's jaw, and the lower part of his face, were bandaged +up; his cap was slouched down; he held his cloak about him, and +shivered within its folds. + +They came to a standstill from some slight obstacle at the corner of +a street. Down the causeway of this street a naval officer with a +lady on his arm was walking briskly, with a step that told of health +and a light heart. He stayed his progress though, when he saw the +convoy of maimed and wounded men; he said something, of which Philip +only caught the words, 'same uniform,' 'for his sake,' to the young +lady, whose cheek blanched a little, but whose eyes kindled. Then +leaving her for an instant, he pressed forward; he was close to +Philip,--poor sad Philip absorbed in his own thoughts,--so absorbed +that he noticed nothing till he heard a voice at his ear, having the +Northumbrian burr, the Newcastle inflections which he knew of old, +and that were to him like the sick memory of a deadly illness; and +then he turned his muffled face to the speaker, though he knew well +enough who it was, and averted his eyes after one sight of the +handsome, happy man,--the man whose life he had saved once, and +would save again, at the risk of his own, but whom, for all that, he +prayed that he might never meet more on earth. + +'Here, my fine fellow, take this,' forcing a crown piece into +Philip's hand. 'I wish it were more; I'd give you a pound if I had +it with me.' + +Philip muttered something, and held out the coin to Captain Kinraid, +of course in vain; nor was there time to urge it back upon the +giver, for the obstacle to their progress was suddenly removed, the +crowd pressed upon the captain and his wife, the procession moved +on, and Philip along with it, holding the piece in his hand, and +longing to throw it far away. Indeed he was on the point of dropping +it, hoping to do so unperceived, when he bethought him of giving it +to Jem's wife, the footsore woman, limping happily along by her +husband's side. They thanked him, and spoke in his praise more than +he could well bear. It was no credit to him to give that away which +burned his fingers as long as he kept it. + +Philip knew that the injuries he had received in the explosion on +board the _Theseus_ would oblige him to leave the service. He also +believed that they would entitle him to a pension. But he had little +interest in his future life; he was without hope, and in a depressed +state of health. He remained for some little time stationary, and +then went through all the forms of dismissal on account of wounds +received in service, and was turned out loose upon the world, +uncertain where to go, indifferent as to what became of him. + +It was fine, warm October weather as he turned his back upon the +coast, and set off on his walk northwards. Green leaves were yet +upon the trees; the hedges were one flush of foliage and the wild +rough-flavoured fruits of different kinds; the fields were tawny +with the uncleared-off stubble, or emerald green with the growth of +the aftermath. The roadside cottage gardens were gay with hollyhocks +and Michaelmas daisies and marigolds, and the bright panes of the +windows glittered through a veil of China roses. + +The war was a popular one, and, as a natural consequence, soldiers +and sailors were heroes everywhere. Philip's long drooping form, his +arm hung in a sling, his face scarred and blackened, his jaw bound +up with a black silk handkerchief; these marks of active service +were reverenced by the rustic cottagers as though they had been +crowns and sceptres. Many a hard-handed labourer left his seat by +the chimney corner, and came to his door to have a look at one who +had been fighting the French, and pushed forward to have a grasp of +the stranger's hand as he gave back the empty cup into the good +wife's keeping, for the kind homely women were ever ready with milk +or homebrewed to slake the feverish traveller's thirst when he +stopped at their doors and asked for a drink of water. + +At the village public-house he had had a welcome of a more +interested character, for the landlord knew full well that his +circle of customers would be large that night, if it was only known +that he had within his doors a soldier or a sailor who had seen +service. The rustic politicians would gather round Philip, and smoke +and drink, and then question and discuss till they were drouthy +again; and in their sturdy obtuse minds they set down the extra +glass and the supernumerary pipe to the score of patriotism. + +Altogether human nature turned its sunny side out to Philip just +now; and not before he needed the warmth of brotherly kindness to +cheer his shivering soul. Day after day he drifted northwards, +making but the slow progress of a feeble man, and yet this short +daily walk tired him so much that he longed for rest--for the +morning to come when he needed not to feel that in the course of an +hour or two he must be up and away. + +He was toiling on with this longing at his heart when he saw that he +was drawing near a stately city, with a great old cathedral in the +centre keeping solemn guard. This place might be yet two or three +miles distant; he was on a rising ground looking down upon it. A +labouring man passing by, observed his pallid looks and his languid +attitude, and told him for his comfort, that if he turned down a +lane to the left a few steps farther on, he would find himself at +the Hospital of St Sepulchre, where bread and beer were given to all +comers, and where he might sit him down and rest awhile on the old +stone benches within the shadow of the gateway. Obeying these +directions, Philip came upon a building which dated from the time of +Henry the Fifth. Some knight who had fought in the French wars of +that time, and had survived his battles and come home to his old +halls, had been stirred up by his conscience, or by what was +equivalent in those days, his confessor, to build and endow a +hospital for twelve decayed soldiers, and a chapel wherein they were +to attend the daily masses he ordained to be said till the end of +all time (which eternity lasted rather more than a century, pretty +well for an eternity bespoken by a man), for his soul and the souls +of those whom he had slain. There was a large division of the +quadrangular building set apart for the priest who was to say these +masses; and to watch over the well-being of the bedesmen. In process +of years the origin and primary purpose of the hospital had been +forgotten by all excepting the local antiquaries; and the place +itself came to be regarded as a very pleasant quaint set of +almshouses; and the warden's office (he who should have said or sung +his daily masses was now called the warden, and read daily prayers +and preached a sermon on Sundays) an agreeable sinecure. + +Another legacy of old Sir Simon Bray was that of a small croft of +land, the rent or profits of which were to go towards giving to all +who asked for it a manchet of bread and a cup of good beer. This +beer was, so Sir Simon ordained, to be made after a certain receipt +which he left, in which ground ivy took the place of hops. But the +receipt, as well as the masses, was modernized according to the +progress of time. + +Philip stood under a great broad stone archway; the back-door into +the warden's house was on the right side; a kind of buttery-hatch +was placed by the porter's door on the opposite side. After some +consideration, Philip knocked at the closed shutter, and the signal +seemed to be well understood. He heard a movement within; the hatch +was drawn aside, and his bread and beer were handed to him by a +pleasant-looking old man, who proved himself not at all disinclined +for conversation. + +'You may sit down on yonder bench,' said he. 'Nay, man! sit i' the +sun, for it's a chilly place, this, and then you can look through +the grate and watch th' old fellows toddling about in th' quad.' + +Philip sat down where the warm October sun slanted upon him, and +looked through the iron railing at the peaceful sight. + +A great square of velvet lawn, intersected diagonally with broad +flag-paved walks, the same kind of walk going all round the +quadrangle; low two-storied brick houses, tinted gray and yellow by +age, and in many places almost covered with vines, Virginian +creepers, and monthly roses; before each house a little plot of +garden ground, bright with flowers, and evidently tended with the +utmost care; on the farther side the massive chapel; here and there +an old or infirm man sunning himself, or leisurely doing a bit of +gardening, or talking to one of his comrades--the place looked as if +care and want, and even sorrow, were locked out and excluded by the +ponderous gate through which Philip was gazing. + +'It's a nice enough place, bean't it?' said the porter, interpreting +Philip's looks pretty accurately. 'Leastways, for them as likes it. +I've got a bit weary on it myself; it's so far from th' world, as a +man may say; not a decent public within a mile and a half, where one +can hear a bit o' news of an evening.' + +'I think I could make myself very content here,' replied Philip. +'That's to say, if one were easy in one's mind.' + +'Ay, ay, my man. That's it everywhere. Why, I don't think that I +could enjoy myself--not even at th' White Hart, where they give you +as good a glass of ale for twopence as anywhere i' th' four +kingdoms--I couldn't, to say, flavour my ale even there, if my old +woman lay a-dying; which is a sign as it's the heart, and not the +ale, as makes the drink.' + +Just then the warden's back-door opened, and out came the warden +himself, dressed in full clerical costume. + +He was going into the neighbouring city, but he stopped to speak to +Philip, the wounded soldier; and all the more readily because his +old faded uniform told the warden's experienced eye that he had +belonged to the Marines. + +'I hope you enjoy the victual provided for you by the founder of St +Sepulchre,' said he, kindly. 'You look but poorly, my good fellow, +and as if a slice of good cold meat would help your bread down.' + +'Thank you, sir!' said Philip. 'I'm not hungry, only weary, and glad +of a draught of beer.' + +'You've been in the Marines, I see. Where have you been serving?' + +'I was at the siege of Acre, last May, sir.' + +'At Acre! Were you, indeed? Then perhaps you know my boy Harry? He +was in the----th.' + +'It was my company,' said Philip, warming up a little. Looking back +upon his soldier's life, it seemed to him to have many charms, +because it was so full of small daily interests. + +'Then, did you know my son, Lieutenant Pennington?' + +'It was he that gave me this cloak, sir, when they were sending me +back to England. I had been his servant for a short time before I +was wounded by the explosion on board the _Theseus_, and he said I +should feel the cold of the voyage. He's very kind; and I've heard +say he promises to be a first-rate officer.' + +'You shall have a slice of roast beef, whether you want it or not,' +said the warden, ringing the bell at his own back-door. 'I recognize +the cloak now--the young scamp! How soon he has made it shabby, +though,' he continued, taking up a corner where there was an immense +tear not too well botched up. 'And so you were on board the +_Theseus_ at the time of the explosion? Bring some cold meat here +for the good man--or stay! Come in with me, and then you can tell +Mrs. Pennington and the young ladies all you know about Harry,--and +the siege,--and the explosion.' + +So Philip was ushered into the warden's house and made to eat roast +beef almost against his will; and he was questioned and +cross-questioned by three eager ladies, all at the same time, as it +seemed to him. He had given all possible details on the subjects +about which they were curious; and was beginning to consider how he +could best make his retreat, when the younger Miss Pennington went +up to her father--who had all this time stood, with his hat on, +holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his back to the fire. He +bent his ear down a very little to hear some whispered suggestion of +his daughter's, nodded his head, and then went on questioning +Philip, with kindly inquisitiveness and patronage, as the rich do +question the poor. + +'And where are you going to now?' + +Philip did not answer directly. He wondered in his own mind where he +was going. At length he said, + +'Northwards, I believe. But perhaps I shall never reach there.' + +'Haven't you friends? Aren't you going to them?' + +There was again a pause; a cloud came over Philip's countenance. He +said, + +'No! I'm not going to my friends. I don't know that I've got any +left.' + +They interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that he had +either lost his friends by death, or offended them by enlisting. + +The warden went on, + +'I ask, because we've got a cottage vacant in the mead. Old Dobson, +who was with General Wolfe at the taking of Quebec, died a fortnight +ago. With such injuries as yours, I fear you'll never be able to +work again. But we require strict testimonials as to character,' he +added, with as penetrating a look as he could summon up at Philip. + +Philip looked unmoved, either by the offer of the cottage, or the +illusion to the possibility of his character not being satisfactory. +He was grateful enough in reality, but too heavy at heart to care +very much what became of him. + +The warden and his family, who were accustomed to consider a +settlement at St Sepulchre's as the sum of all good to a worn-out +soldier, were a little annoyed at Philip's cool way of receiving the +proposition. The warden went on to name the contingent advantages. + +'Besides the cottage, you would have a load of wood for firing on +All Saints', on Christmas, and on Candlemas days--a blue gown and +suit of clothes to match every Michaelmas, and a shilling a day to +keep yourself in all other things. Your dinner you would have with +the other men, in hall.' + +'The warden himself goes into hall every day, and sees that +everything is comfortable, and says grace,' added the warden's lady. + +'I know I seem stupid,' said Philip, almost humbly, 'not to be more +grateful, for it's far beyond what I iver expected or thought for +again, and it's a great temptation, for I'm just worn out with +fatigue. Several times I've thought I must lie down under a hedge, +and just die for very weariness. But once I had a wife and a child +up in the north,' he stopped. + +'And are they dead?' asked one of the young ladies in a soft +sympathizing tone. Her eyes met Philip's, full of dumb woe. He tried +to speak; he wanted to explain more fully, yet not to reveal the +truth. + +'Well!' said the warden, thinking he perceived the real state of +things, 'what I propose is this. You shall go into old Dobson's +house at once, as a kind of probationary bedesman. I'll write to +Harry, and get your character from him. Stephen Freeman I think you +said your name was? Before I can receive his reply you'll have been +able to tell how you'd like the kind of life; and at any rate you'll +have the rest you seem to require in the meantime. You see, I take +Harry's having given you that cloak as a kind of character,' added +he, smiling kindly. 'Of course you'll have to conform to rules just +like all the rest,--chapel at eight, dinner at twelve, lights out at +nine; but I'll tell you the remainder of our regulations as we walk +across quad to your new quarters.' + +And thus Philip, almost in spite of himself, became installed in a +bedesman's house at St Sepulchre. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +A FABLE AT FAULT + + + + + +Philip took possession of the two rooms which had belonged to the +dead Sergeant Dobson. They were furnished sufficiently for every +comfort by the trustees of the hospital. Some little fragments of +ornament, some small articles picked up in distant countries, a few +tattered books, remained in the rooms as legacies from their former +occupant. + +At first the repose of the life and the place was inexpressibly +grateful to Philip. He had always shrunk from encountering +strangers, and displaying his blackened and scarred countenance to +them, even where such disfigurement was most regarded as a mark of +honour. In St Sepulchre's he met none but the same set day after +day, and when he had once told the tale of how it happened and +submitted to their gaze, it was over for ever, if he so minded. The +slight employment his garden gave him--there was a kitchen-garden +behind each house, as well as the flower-plot in front--and the +daily arrangement of his parlour and chamber were, at the beginning +of his time of occupation, as much bodily labour as he could manage. +There was something stately and utterly removed from all Philip's +previous existence in the forms observed at every day's dinner, when +the twelve bedesmen met in the large quaint hall, and the warden +came in his college-cap and gown to say the long Latin grace which +wound up with something very like a prayer for the soul of Sir Simon +Bray. It took some time to get a reply to ship letters in those +times when no one could exactly say where the fleet might be found. + +And before Dr Pennington had received the excellent character of +Stephen Freeman, which his son gladly sent in answer to his father's +inquiries, Philip had become restless and uneasy in the midst of all +this peace and comfort. + +Sitting alone over his fire in the long winter evenings, the scenes +of his past life rose before him; his childhood; his aunt Robson's +care of him; his first going to Foster's shop in Monkshaven; +Haytersbank Farm, and the spelling lessons in the bright warm +kitchen there; Kinraid's appearance; the miserable night of the +Corneys' party; the farewell he had witnessed on Monkshaven sands; +the press-gang, and all the long consequences of that act of +concealment; poor Daniel Robson's trial and execution; his own +marriage; his child's birth; and then he came to that last day at +Monkshaven: and he went over and over again the torturing details, +the looks of contempt and anger, the words of loathing indignation, +till he almost brought himself, out of his extreme sympathy with +Sylvia, to believe that he was indeed the wretch she had considered +him to be. + +He forgot his own excuses for having acted as he had done; though +these excuses had at one time seemed to him to wear the garb of +reasons. After long thought and bitter memory came some wonder. What +was Sylvia doing now? Where was she? What was his child like--his +child as well as hers? And then he remembered the poor footsore wife +and the little girl she carried in her arms, that was just the age +of Bella; he wished he had noticed that child more, that a clear +vision of it might rise up when he wanted to picture Bella. + +One night he had gone round this mill-wheel circle of ideas till he +was weary to the very marrow of his bones. To shake off the +monotonous impression he rose to look for a book amongst the old +tattered volumes, hoping that he might find something that would +sufficiently lay hold of him to change the current of his thoughts. +There was an old volume of _Peregrine Pickle_; a book of sermons; +half an army list of 1774, and the _Seven Champions of Christendom_. +Philip took up this last, which he had never seen before. In it he +read how Sir Guy, Earl of Warwick, went to fight the Paynim in his +own country, and was away for seven long years; and when he came +back his own wife Phillis, the countess in her castle, did not know +the poor travel-worn hermit, who came daily to seek his dole of +bread at her hands along with many beggars and much poor. But at +last, when he lay a-dying in his cave in the rock, he sent for her +by a secret sign known but to them twain. And she came with great +speed, for she knew it was her lord who had sent for her; and they +had many sweet and holy words together before he gave up the ghost, +his head lying on her bosom. + +The old story known to most people from their childhood was all new +and fresh to Philip. He did not quite believe in the truth of it, +because the fictitious nature of the histories of some of the other +Champions of Christendom was too patent. But he could not help +thinking that this one might be true; and that Guy and Phillis might +have been as real flesh and blood, long, long ago, as he and Sylvia +had even been. The old room, the quiet moonlit quadrangle into which +the cross-barred casement looked, the quaint aspect of everything +that he had seen for weeks and weeks; all this predisposed Philip to +dwell upon the story he had just been reading as a faithful legend +of two lovers whose bones were long since dust. He thought that if +he could thus see Sylvia, himself unknown, unseen--could live at her +gates, so to speak, and gaze upon her and his child--some day too, +when he lay a-dying, he might send for her, and in soft words of +mutual forgiveness breathe his life away in her arms. Or perhaps +---and so he lost himself, and from thinking, passed on to dreaming. +All night long Guy and Phillis, Sylvia and his child, passed in and +out of his visions; it was impossible to make the fragments of his +dreams cohere; but the impression made upon him by them was not the +less strong for this. He felt as if he were called to Monkshaven, +wanted at Monkshaven, and to Monkshaven he resolved to go; although +when his reason overtook his feeling, he knew perfectly how unwise +it was to leave a home of peace and tranquillity and surrounding +friendliness, to go to a place where nothing but want and +wretchedness awaited him unless he made himself known; and if he +did, a deeper want, a more woeful wretchedness, would in all +probability be his portion. + +In the small oblong of looking-glass hung against the wall, Philip +caught the reflection of his own face, and laughed scornfully at the +sight. The thin hair lay upon his temples in the flakes that betoken +long ill-health; his eyes were the same as ever, and they had always +been considered the best feature in his face; but they were sunk in +their orbits, and looked hollow and gloomy. As for the lower part of +his face, blackened, contracted, drawn away from his teeth, the +outline entirely changed by the breakage of his jaw-bone, he was +indeed a fool if he thought himself fit to go forth to win back that +love which Sylvia had forsworn. As a hermit and a beggar, he must +return to Monkshaven, and fall perforce into the same position which +Guy of Warwick had only assumed. But still he should see his +Phillis, and might feast his sad hopeless eyes from time to time +with the sight of his child. His small pension of sixpence a day +would keep him from absolute want of necessaries. + +So that very day he went to the warden and told him he thought of +giving up his share in the bequest of Sir Simon Bray. Such a +relinquishment had never occurred before in all the warden's +experience; and he was very much inclined to be offended. + +'I must say that for a man not to be satisfied as a bedesman of St +Sepulchre's argues a very wrong state of mind, and a very ungrateful +heart.' + +'I'm sure, sir, it's not from any ingratitude, for I can hardly feel +thankful to you and to Sir Simon, and to madam, and the young +ladies, and all my comrades in the hospital, and I niver expect to +be either so comfortable or so peaceful again, but----' + +'But? What can you have to say against the place, then? Not but what +there are always plenty of applicants for every vacancy; only I +thought I was doing a kindness to a man out of Harry's company. And +you'll not see Harry either; he's got his leave in March!' + +'I'm very sorry. I should like to have seen the lieutenant again. +But I cannot rest any longer so far away from--people I once knew.' + +'Ten to one they're dead, or removed, or something or other by this +time; and it'll serve you right if they are. Mind! no one can be +chosen twice to be a bedesman of St Sepulchre's.' + +The warden turned away; and Philip, uneasy at staying, disheartened +at leaving, went to make his few preparations for setting out once +more on his journey northwards. He had to give notice of his change +of residence to the local distributor of pensions; and one or two +farewells had to be taken, with more than usual sadness at the +necessity; for Philip, under his name of Stephen Freeman, had +attached some of the older bedesmen a good deal to him, from his +unselfishness, his willingness to read to them, and to render them +many little services, and, perhaps, as much as anything, by his +habitual silence, which made him a convenient recipient of all their +garrulousness. So before the time for his departure came, he had the +opportunity of one more interview with the warden, of a more +friendly character than that in which he gave up his bedesmanship. +And so far it was well; and Philip turned his back upon St +Sepulchre's with his sore heart partly healed by his four months' +residence there. + +He was stronger, too, in body, more capable of the day-after-day +walks that were required of him. He had saved some money from his +allowance as bedesman and from his pension, and might occasionally +have taken an outside place on a coach, had it not been that he +shrank from the first look of every stranger upon his disfigured +face. Yet the gentle, wistful eyes, and the white and faultless +teeth always did away with the first impression as soon as people +became a little acquainted with his appearance. + +It was February when Philip left St Sepulchre's. It was the first +week in April when he began to recognize the familiar objects +between York and Monkshaven. And now he began to hang back, and to +question the wisdom of what he had done--just as the warden had +prophesied that he would. The last night of his two hundred mile +walk he slept at the little inn at which he had been enlisted nearly +two years before. It was by no intention of his that he rested at +that identical place. Night was drawing on; and, in making, as he +thought, a short cut, he had missed his way, and was fain to seek +shelter where he might find it. But it brought him very straight +face to face with his life at that time, and ever since. His mad, +wild hopes--half the result of intoxication, as he now knew--all +dead and gone; the career then freshly opening shut up against him +now; his youthful strength and health changed into premature +infirmity, and the home and the love that should have opened wide +its doors to console him for all, why in two years Death might have +been busy, and taken away from him his last feeble chance of the +faint happiness of seeing his beloved without being seen or known of +her. All that night and all the next day, the fear of Sylvia's +possible death overclouded his heart. It was strange that he had +hardly ever thought of this before; so strange, that now, when the +terror came, it took possession of him, and he could almost have +sworn that she must be lying dead in Monkshaven churchyard. Or was +it little Bella, that blooming, lovely babe, whom he was never to +see again? There was the tolling of mournful bells in the distant +air to his disturbed fancy, and the cry of the happy birds, the +plaintive bleating of the new-dropped lambs, were all omens of evil +import to him. + +As well as he could, he found his way back to Monkshaven, over the +wild heights and moors he had crossed on that black day of misery; +why he should have chosen that path he could not tell--it was as if +he were led, and had no free will of his own. + +The soft clear evening was drawing on, and his heart beat thick, and +then stopped, only to start again with fresh violence. There he was, +at the top of the long, steep lane that was in some parts a literal +staircase leading down from the hill-top into the High Street, +through the very entry up which he had passed when he shrank away +from his former and his then present life. There he stood, looking +down once more at the numerous irregular roofs, the many stacks of +chimneys below him, seeking out that which had once been his own +dwelling--who dwelt there now? + +The yellower gleams grew narrower; the evening shadows broader, and +Philip crept down the lane a weary, woeful man. At every gap in the +close-packed buildings he heard the merry music of a band, the +cheerful sound of excited voices. Still he descended slowly, +scarcely wondering what it could be, for it was not associated in +his mind with the one pervading thought of Sylvia. + +When he came to the angle of junction between the lane and the High +Street, he seemed plunged all at once into the very centre of the +bustle, and he drew himself up into a corner of deep shadow, from +whence he could look out upon the street. + +A circus was making its grand entry into Monkshaven, with all the +pomp of colour and of noise that it could muster. Trumpeters in +parti-coloured clothes rode first, blaring out triumphant discord. +Next came a gold-and-scarlet chariot drawn by six piebald horses, +and the windings of this team through the tortuous narrow street +were pretty enough to look upon. In the chariot sate kings and +queens, heroes and heroines, or what were meant for such; all the +little boys and girls running alongside of the chariot envied them; +but they themselves were very much tired, and shivering with cold in +their heroic pomp of classic clothing. All this Philip might have +seen; did see, in fact; but heeded not one jot. Almost opposite to +him, not ten yards apart, standing on the raised step at the +well-known shop door, was Sylvia, holding a child, a merry dancing +child, up in her arms to see the show. She too, Sylvia, was laughing +for pleasure, and for sympathy with pleasure. She held the little +Bella aloft that the child might see the gaudy procession the better +and the longer, looking at it herself with red lips apart and white +teeth glancing through; then she turned to speak to some one behind +her--Coulson, as Philip saw the moment afterwards; his answer made +her laugh once again. Philip saw it all; her bonny careless looks, +her pretty matronly form, her evident ease of mind and prosperous +outward circumstances. The years that he had spent in gloomy sorrow, +amongst wild scenes, on land or by sea, his life in frequent peril +of a bloody end, had gone by with her like sunny days; all the more +sunny because he was not there. So bitterly thought the poor +disabled marine, as, weary and despairing, he stood in the cold +shadow and looked upon the home that should have been his haven, the +wife that should have welcomed him, the child that should have been +his comfort. He had banished himself from his home; his wife had +forsworn him; his child was blossoming into intelligence unwitting +of any father. Wife, and child, and home, were all doing well +without him; what madness had tempted him thither? an hour ago, like +a fanciful fool, he had thought she might be dead--dead with sad +penitence for her cruel words at her heart--with mournful wonder at +the unaccounted-for absence of her child's father preying on her +spirits, and in some measure causing the death he had apprehended. +But to look at her there where she stood, it did not seem as if she +had had an hour's painful thought in all her blooming life. + +Ay! go in to the warm hearth, mother and child, now the gay +cavalcade has gone out of sight, and the chill of night has +succeeded to the sun's setting. Husband and father, steal out into +the cold dark street, and seek some poor cheap lodging where you may +rest your weary bones, and cheat your more weary heart into +forgetfulness in sleep. The pretty story of the Countess Phillis, +who mourned for her husband's absence so long, is a fable of old +times; or rather say Earl Guy never wedded his wife, knowing that +one she loved better than him was alive all the time she had +believed him to be dead. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +THE UNKNOWN + + + + + +A few days before that on which Philip arrived at Monkshaven, Kester +had come to pay Sylvia a visit. As the earliest friend she had, and +also as one who knew the real secrets of her life, Sylvia always +gave him the warm welcome, the cordial words, and the sweet looks in +which the old man delighted. He had a sort of delicacy of his own +which kept him from going to see her too often, even when he was +stationary at Monkshaven; but he looked forward to the times when he +allowed himself this pleasure as a child at school looks forward to +its holidays. The time of his service at Haytersbank had, on the +whole, been the happiest in all his long monotonous years of daily +labour. Sylvia's father had always treated him with the rough +kindness of fellowship; Sylvia's mother had never stinted him in his +meat or grudged him his share of the best that was going; and once, +when he was ill for a few days in the loft above the cow-house, she +had made him possets, and nursed him with the same tenderness which +he remembered his mother showing to him when he was a little child, +but which he had never experienced since then. He had known Sylvia +herself, as bud, and sweet promise of blossom; and just as she was +opening into the full-blown rose, and, if she had been happy and +prosperous, might have passed out of the narrow circle of Kester's +interests, one sorrow after another came down upon her pretty +innocent head, and Kester's period of service to Daniel Robson, her +father, was tragically cut short. All this made Sylvia the great +centre of the faithful herdsman's affection; and Bella, who reminded +him of what Sylvia was when first Kester knew her, only occupied the +second place in his heart, although to the child he was much more +demonstrative of his regard than to the mother. + +He had dressed himself in his Sunday best, and although it was only +Thursday, had forestalled his Saturday's shaving; he had provided +himself with a paper of humbugs for the child--'humbugs' being the +north-country term for certain lumps of toffy, well-flavoured with +peppermint--and now he sat in the accustomed chair, as near to the +door as might be, in Sylvia's presence, coaxing the little one, who +was not quite sure of his identity, to come to him, by opening the +paper parcel, and letting its sweet contents be seen. + +'She's like thee--and yet she favours her feyther,' said he; and the +moment he had uttered the incautious words he looked up to see how +Sylvia had taken the unpremeditated, unusual reference to her +husband. His stealthy glance did not meet her eye; but though he +thought she had coloured a little, she did not seem offended as he +had feared. It was true that Bella had her father's grave, +thoughtful, dark eyes, instead of her mother's gray ones, out of +which the childlike expression of wonder would never entirely pass +away. And as Bella slowly and half distrustfully made her way +towards the temptation offered her, she looked at Kester with just +her father's look. + +Sylvia said nothing in direct reply; Kester almost thought she could +not have heard him. But, by-and-by, she said,-- + +'Yo'll have heared how Kinraid--who's a captain now, and a grand +officer--has gone and got married.' + +'Nay!' said Kester, in genuine surprise. 'He niver has, for sure!' + +'Ay, but he has,' said Sylvia. 'And I'm sure I dunnot see why he +shouldn't.' + +'Well, well!' said Kester, not looking up at her, for he caught the +inflections in the tones of her voice. 'He were a fine stirrin' +chap, yon; an' he were allays for doin' summut; an' when he fund as +he couldn't ha' one thing as he'd set his mind on, a reckon he +thought he mun put up wi' another.' + +'It 'ud be no "putting up,"' said Sylvia. 'She were staying at Bessy +Dawson's, and she come here to see me--she's as pretty a young lady +as yo'd see on a summer's day; and a real lady, too, wi' a fortune. +She didn't speak two words wi'out bringing in her husband's +name,--"the captain", as she called him.' + +'An' she come to see thee?' said Kester, cocking his eye at Sylvia +with the old shrewd look. 'That were summut queer, weren't it?' + +Sylvia reddened a good deal. + +'He's too fause to have spoken to her on me, in t' old way,--as he +used for t' speak to me. I were nought to her but Philip's wife.' + +'An' what t' dickins had she to do wi' Philip?' asked Kester, in +intense surprise; and so absorbed in curiosity that he let the +humbugs all fall out of the paper upon the floor, and the little +Bella sat down, plump, in the midst of treasures as great as those +fabled to exist on Tom Tiddler's ground. + +Sylvia was again silent; but Kester, knowing her well, was sure that +she was struggling to speak, and bided his time without repeating +his question. + +'She said--and I think her tale were true, though I cannot get to t' +rights on it, think on it as I will--as Philip saved her husband's +life somewheere nearabouts to Jerusalem. She would have it that t' +captain--for I think I'll niver ca' him Kinraid again--was in a +great battle, and were near upon being shot by t' French, when +Philip--our Philip--come up and went right into t' fire o' t' guns, +and saved her husband's life. And she spoke as if both she and t' +captain were more beholden to Philip than words could tell. And she +come to see me, to try and get news on him. + +'It's a queer kind o' story,' said Kester, meditatively. 'A should +ha' thought as Philip were more likely to ha' gi'en him a shove into +t' thick on it, than t' help him out o' t' scrape.' + +'Nay!' said Sylvia, suddenly looking straight at Kester; 'yo're out +theere. Philip had a deal o' good in him. And I dunnot think as he'd +ha' gone and married another woman so soon, if he'd been i' +Kinraid's place.' + +'An' yo've niver heared on Philip sin' he left?' asked Kester, after +a while. + +'Niver; nought but what she told me. And she said that t' captain +made inquiry for him right and left, as soon after that happened as +might be, and could hear niver a word about him. No one had seen +him, or knowed his name.' + +'Yo' niver heared of his goin' for t' be a soldier?' persevered +Kester. + +'Niver. I've told yo' once. It were unlike Philip to think o' such a +thing.' + +'But thou mun ha' been thinkin' on him at times i' a' these years. +Bad as he'd behaved hissel', he were t' feyther o' thy little un. +What did ta think he had been agait on when he left here?' + +'I didn't know. I were noane so keen a-thinking on him at first. I +tried to put him out o' my thoughts a'together, for it made me like +mad to think how he'd stood between me and--that other. But I'd +begun to wonder and to wonder about him, and to think I should like +to hear as he were doing well. I reckon I thought he were i' London, +wheere he'd been that time afore, yo' know, and had allays spoke as +if he'd enjoyed hissel' tolerable; and then Molly Brunton told me on +t' other one's marriage; and, somehow, it gave me a shake in my +heart, and I began for to wish I hadn't said all them words i' my +passion; and then that fine young lady come wi' her story--and I've +thought a deal on it since,--and my mind has come out clear. +Philip's dead, and it were his spirit as come to t' other's help in +his time o' need. I've heard feyther say as spirits cannot rest i' +their graves for trying to undo t' wrongs they've done i' their +bodies.' + +'Them's my conclusions,' said Kester, solemnly. 'A was fain for to +hear what were yo'r judgments first; but them's the conclusions I +comed to as soon as I heard t' tale.' + +'Let alone that one thing,' said Sylvia, 'he were a kind, good man.' + +'It were a big deal on a "one thing", though,' said Kester. 'It just +spoilt yo'r life, my poor lass; an' might ha' gone near to spoilin' +Charley Kinraid's too.' + +'Men takes a deal more nor women to spoil their lives,' said Sylvia, +bitterly. + +'Not a' mak' o' men. I reckon, lass, Philip's life were pretty well +on for bein' spoilt at after he left here; and it were, mebbe, a +good thing he got rid on it so soon.' + +'I wish I'd just had a few kind words wi' him, I do,' said Sylvia, +almost on the point of crying. + +'Come, lass, it's as ill moanin' after what's past as it 'ud be for +me t' fill my eyes wi' weepin' after t' humbugs as this little wench +o' thine has grubbed up whilst we'n been talkin'. Why, there's not +one on 'em left!' + +'She's a sad spoilt little puss!' said Sylvia, holding out her arms +to the child, who ran into them, and began patting her mother's +cheeks, and pulling at the soft brown curls tucked away beneath the +matronly cap. 'Mammy spoils her, and Hester spoils her----' + +'Granny Rose doesn't spoil me,' said the child, with quick, +intelligent discrimination, interrupting her mother's list. + +'No; but Jeremiah Foster does above a bit. He'll come in fro' t' +Bank, Kester, and ask for her, a'most ivery day. And he'll bring her +things in his pocket; and she's so fause, she allays goes straight +to peep in, and then he shifts t' apple or t' toy into another. Eh! +but she's a little fause one,'--half devouring the child with her +kisses. 'And he comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goes +as slow as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace wi' Bella's +steps. I often run upstairs and watch 'em out o' t' window; he +doesn't care to have me with 'em, he's so fain t' have t' child all +to hisself.' + +'She's a bonny un, for sure,' said Kester; 'but not so pretty as +thou was, Sylvie. A've niver tell'd thee what a come for tho', and +it's about time for me t' be goin'. A'm off to t' Cheviots to-morrow +morn t' fetch home some sheep as Jonas Blundell has purchased. It'll +be a job o' better nor two months a reckon.' + +'It'll be a nice time o' year,' said Sylvia, a little surprised at +Kester's evident discouragement at the prospect of the journey or +absence; he had often been away from Monkshaven for a longer time +without seeming to care so much about it. + +'Well, yo' see it's a bit hard upon me for t' leave my sister--she +as is t' widow-woman, wheere a put up when a'm at home. Things is +main an' dear; four-pound loaves is at sixteenpence; an' there's a +deal o' talk on a famine i' t' land; an' whaten a paid for my +victual an' t' bed i' t' lean-to helped t' oud woman a bit,--an' +she's sadly down i' t' mouth, for she cannot hear on a lodger for t' +tak' my place, for a' she's moved o'er to t' other side o' t' bridge +for t' be nearer t' new buildings, an' t' grand new walk they're +makin' round t' cliffs, thinkin' she'd be likelier t' pick up a +labourer as would be glad on a bed near his work. A'd ha' liked to +ha' set her agait wi' a 'sponsible lodger afore a'd ha' left, for +she's just so soft-hearted, any scamp may put upon her if he nobbut +gets houd on her blind side.' + +'Can I help her?' said Sylvia, in her eager way. 'I should be so +glad; and I've a deal of money by me---' + +'Nay, my lass,' said Kester, 'thou munnot go off so fast; it were +just what I were feared on i' tellin' thee. I've left her a bit o' +money, and I'll mak' shift to send her more; it's just a kind word, +t' keep up her heart when I'm gone, as I want. If thou'd step in and +see her fra' time to time, and cheer her up a bit wi' talkin' to her +on me, I'd tak' it very kind, and I'd go off wi' a lighter heart.' + +'Then I'm sure I'll do it for yo', Kester. I niver justly feel like +mysel' when yo're away, for I'm lonesome enough at times. She and I +will talk a' t' better about yo' for both on us grieving after yo'.' + +So Kester took his leave, his mind set at ease by Sylvia's promise +to go and see his sister pretty often during his absence in the +North. + +But Sylvia's habits were changed since she, as a girl at +Haytersbank, liked to spend half her time in the open air, running +out perpetually without anything on to scatter crumbs to the +poultry, or to take a piece of bread to the old cart-horse, to go up +to the garden for a handful of herbs, or to clamber to the highest +point around to blow the horn which summoned her father and Kester +home to dinner. Living in a town where it was necessary to put on +hat and cloak before going out into the street, and then to walk in +a steady and decorous fashion, she had only cared to escape down to +the freedom of the sea-shore until Philip went away; and after that +time she had learnt so to fear observation as a deserted wife, that +nothing but Bella's health would have been a sufficient motive to +take her out of doors. And, as she had told Kester, the necessity of +giving the little girl a daily walk was very much lightened by the +great love and affection which Jeremiah Foster now bore to the +child. Ever since the day when the baby had come to his knee, +allured by the temptation of his watch, he had apparently considered +her as in some sort belonging to him; and now he had almost come to +think that he had a right to claim her as his companion in his walk +back from the Bank to his early dinner, where a high chair was +always placed ready for the chance of her coming to share his meal. +On these occasions he generally brought her back to the shop-door +when he returned to his afternoon's work at the Bank. Sometimes, +however, he would leave word that she was to be sent for from his +house in the New Town, as his business at the Bank for that day was +ended. Then Sylvia was compelled to put on her things, and fetch +back her darling; and excepting for this errand she seldom went out +at all on week-days. + +About a fortnight after Kester's farewell call, this need for her +visit to Jeremiah Foster's arose; and it seemed to Sylvia that there +could not be a better opportunity of fulfilling her promise and +going to see the widow Dobson, whose cottage was on the other side +of the river, low down on the cliff-side, just at the bend and rush +of the full stream into the open sea. She set off pretty early in +order to go there first. She found the widow with her house-place +tidied up after the midday meal, and busy knitting at the open +door--not looking at her rapid-clicking needles, but gazing at the +rush and recession of the waves before her; yet not seeing them +either,--rather seeing days long past. + +She started into active civility as soon as she recognized Sylvia, +who was to her as a great lady, never having known Sylvia Robson in +her wild childish days. Widow Dobson was always a little scandalized +at her brother Christopher's familiarity with Mrs. Hepburn. + +She dusted a chair which needed no dusting, and placed it for +Sylvia, sitting down herself on a three-legged stool to mark her +sense of the difference in their conditions, for there was another +chair or two in the humble dwelling; and then the two fell into +talk--first about Kester, whom his sister would persist in calling +Christopher, as if his dignity as her elder brother was compromised +by any familiar abbreviation; and by-and-by she opened her heart a +little more. + +'A could wish as a'd learned write-of-hand,' said she; 'for a've +that for to tell Christopher as might set his mind at ease. But yo' +see, if a wrote him a letter he couldn't read it; so a just comfort +mysel' wi' thinkin' nobody need learn writin' unless they'n got +friends as can read. But a reckon he'd ha' been glad to hear as a've +getten a lodger.' Here she nodded her head in the direction of the +door opening out of the house-place into the 'lean-to', which Sylvia +had observed on drawing near the cottage, and the recollection of +the mention of which by Kester had enabled her to identify widow +Dobson's dwelling. 'He's a-bed yonder,' the latter continued, +dropping her voice. 'He's a queer-lookin' tyke, but a don't think as +he's a bad un.' + +'When did he come?' said Sylvia, remembering Kester's account of his +sister's character, and feeling as though it behoved her, as +Kester's confidante on this head, to give cautious and prudent +advice. + +'Eh! a matter of a s'ennight ago. A'm noane good at mindin' time; +he's paid me his rent twice, but then he were keen to pay aforehand. +He'd comed in one night, an' sate him down afore he could speak, he +were so done up; he'd been on tramp this many a day, a reckon. "Can +yo' give me a bed?" says he, panting like, after a bit. "A chap as a +met near here says as yo've a lodging for t' let." "Ay," says a, "a +ha' that; but yo' mun pay me a shilling a week for 't." Then my mind +misgive me, for a thought he hadn't a shilling i' t' world, an' yet +if he hadn't, a should just ha' gi'en him t' bed a' t' same: a'm not +one as can turn a dog out if he comes t' me wearied o' his life. So +he outs wi' a shillin', an' lays it down on t' table, 'bout a word. +"A'll not trouble yo' long," says he. "A'm one as is best out o' t' +world," he says. Then a thought as a'd been a bit hard upon him. An' +says I, "A'm a widow-woman, and one as has getten but few friends:" +for yo' see a were low about our Christopher's goin' away north; "so +a'm forced-like to speak hard to folk; but a've made mysel' some +stirabout for my supper; and if yo'd like t' share an' share about +wi' me, it's but puttin' a sup more watter to 't, and God's blessing +'ll be on 't, just as same as if 't were meal." So he ups wi' his +hand afore his e'en, and says not a word. At last he says, "Missus," +says he, "can God's blessing be shared by a sinner--one o' t' +devil's children?" says he. "For the Scriptur' says he's t' father +o' lies." So a were puzzled-like; an' at length a says, "Thou mun +ask t' parson that; a'm but a poor faint-hearted widow-woman; but +a've allays had God's blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an' a'll +share it wi' thee as far as my will goes." So he raxes his hand +across t' table, an' mutters summat, as he grips mine. A thought it +were Scriptur' as he said, but a'd needed a' my strength just then +for t' lift t' pot off t' fire--it were t' first vittle a'd tasted +sin' morn, for t' famine comes down like stones on t' head o' us +poor folk: an' a' a said were just "Coom along, chap, an' fa' to; +an' God's blessing be on him as eats most." An' sin' that day him +and me's been as thick as thieves, only he's niver telled me nought +of who he is, or wheere he comes fra'. But a think he's one o' them +poor colliers, as has getten brunt i' t' coal-pits; for, t' be sure, +his face is a' black wi' fire-marks; an' o' late days he's ta'en t' +his bed, an' just lies there sighing,--for one can hear him plain as +dayleet thro' t' bit partition wa'.' + +As a proof of this, a sigh--almost a groan--startled the two women +at this very moment. + +'Poor fellow!' said Sylvia, in a soft whisper. 'There's more sore +hearts i' t' world than one reckons for!' But after a while, she +bethought her again of Kester's account of his sister's 'softness'; +and she thought that it behoved her to give some good advice. So she +added, in a sterner, harder tone--'Still, yo' say yo' know nought +about him; and tramps is tramps a' t' world over; and yo're a widow, +and it behoves yo' to be careful. I think I'd just send him off as +soon as he's a bit rested. Yo' say he's plenty o' money?' + +'Nay! A never said that. A know nought about it. He pays me +aforehand; an' he pays me down for whativer a've getten for him; but +that's but little; he's noane up t' his vittle, though a've made him +some broth as good as a could make 'em.' + +'I wouldn't send him away till he was well again, if I were yo; but +I think yo'd be better rid on him,' said Sylvia. 'It would be +different if yo'r brother were in Monkshaven.' As she spoke she rose +to go. + +Widow Dobson held her hand in hers for a minute, then the humble +woman said,-- + +'Yo'll noane be vexed wi' me, missus, if a cannot find i' my heart +t' turn him out till he wants to go hissel'? For a wouldn't like to +vex yo', for Christopher's sake; but a know what it is for t' feel +for friendless folk, an' choose what may come on it, I cannot send +him away.' + +'No!' said Sylvia. 'Why should I be vexed? it's no business o' mine. +Only I should send him away if I was yo'. He might go lodge wheere +there was men-folk, who know t' ways o' tramps, and are up to them.' + +Into the sunshine went Sylvia. In the cold shadow the miserable +tramp lay sighing. She did not know that she had been so near to him +towards whom her heart was softening, day by day. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +FIRST WORDS + + + + + +It was the spring of 1800. Old people yet can tell of the hard +famine of that year. The harvest of the autumn before had failed; +the war and the corn laws had brought the price of corn up to a +famine rate; and much of what came into the market was unsound, and +consequently unfit for food, yet hungry creatures bought it eagerly, +and tried to cheat disease by mixing the damp, sweet, clammy flour +with rice or potato meal. Rich families denied themselves pastry and +all unnecessary and luxurious uses of wheat in any shape; the duty +on hair-powder was increased; and all these palliatives were but as +drops in the ocean of the great want of the people. + +Philip, in spite of himself, recovered and grew stronger; and as he +grew stronger hunger took the place of loathing dislike to food. But +his money was all spent; and what was his poor pension of sixpence a +day in that terrible year of famine? Many a summer's night he walked +for hours and hours round the house which once was his, which might +be his now, with all its homely, blessed comforts, could he but go +and assert his right to it. But to go with authority, and in his +poor, maimed guise assert that right, he had need be other than +Philip Hepburn. So he stood in the old shelter of the steep, crooked +lane opening on to the hill out of the market-place, and watched the +soft fading of the summer's eve into night; the closing of the once +familiar shop; the exit of good, comfortable William Coulson, going +to his own home, his own wife, his comfortable, plentiful supper. +Then Philip--there were no police in those days, and scarcely an old +watchman in that primitive little town--would go round on the shady +sides of streets, and, quickly glancing about him, cross the bridge, +looking on the quiet, rippling stream, the gray shimmer foretelling +the coming dawn over the sea, the black masts and rigging of the +still vessels against the sky; he could see with his wistful, eager +eyes the shape of the windows--the window of the very room in which +his wife and child slept, unheeding of him, the hungry, +broken-hearted outcast. He would go back to his lodging, and softly +lift the latch of the door; still more softly, but never without an +unspoken, grateful prayer, pass by the poor sleeping woman who had +given him a shelter and her share of God's blessing--she who, like +him, knew not the feeling of satisfied hunger; and then he laid him +down on the narrow pallet in the lean-to, and again gave Sylvia +happy lessons in the kitchen at Haytersbank, and the dead were +alive; and Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, had never come to +trouble the hopeful, gentle peace. + +For widow Dobson had never taken Sylvia's advice. The tramp known to +her by the name of Freeman--that in which he received his +pension--lodged with her still, and paid his meagre shilling in +advance, weekly. A shilling was meagre in those hard days of +scarcity. A hungry man might easily eat the produce of a shilling in +a day. + +Widow Dobson pleaded this to Sylvia as an excuse for keeping her +lodger on; to a more calculating head it might have seemed a reason +for sending him away. + +'Yo' see, missus,' said she, apologetically, to Sylvia, one evening, +as the latter called upon the poor widow before going to fetch +little Bella (it was now too hot for the child to cross the bridge +in the full heat of the summer sun, and Jeremiah would take her up +to her supper instead)--'Yo' see, missus, there's not a many as 'ud +take him in for a shillin' when it goes so little way; or if they +did, they'd take it out on him some other way, an' he's not getten +much else, a reckon. He ca's me granny, but a'm vast mista'en if +he's ten year younger nor me; but he's getten a fine appetite of his +own, choose how young he may be; an' a can see as he could eat a +deal more nor he's getten money to buy, an' it's few as can mak' +victual go farther nor me. Eh, missus, but yo' may trust me a'll +send him off when times is better; but just now it would be sendin' +him to his death; for a ha' plenty and to spare, thanks be to God +an' yo'r bonny face.' + +So Sylvia had to be content with the knowledge that the money she +gladly gave to Kester's sister went partly to feed the lodger who +was neither labourer nor neighbour, but only just a tramp, who, she +feared, was preying on the good old woman. Still the cruel famine +cut sharp enough to penetrate all hearts; and Sylvia, an hour after +the conversation recorded above, was much touched, on her return +from Jeremiah Foster's with the little merry, chattering Bella, at +seeing the feeble steps of one, whom she knew by description must be +widow Dobson's lodger, turn up from the newly-cut road which was to +lead to the terrace walk around the North Cliff, a road which led to +no dwelling but widow Dobson's. Tramp, and vagrant, he might he in +the eyes of the law; but, whatever his character, Sylvia could see +him before her in the soft dusk, creeping along, over the bridge, +often stopping to rest and hold by some support, and then going on +again towards the town, to which she and happy little Bella were +wending. + +A thought came over her: she had always fancied that this unknown +man was some fierce vagabond, and had dreaded lest in the lonely bit +of road between widow Dobson's cottage and the peopled highway, he +should fall upon her and rob her if he learnt that she had money +with her; and several times she had gone away without leaving the +little gift she had intended, because she imagined that she had seen +the door of the small chamber in the 'lean-to' open softly while she +was there, as if the occupant (whom widow Dobson spoke of as never +leaving the house before dusk, excepting once a week) were listening +for the chink of the coin in her little leathern purse. Now that she +saw him walking before her with heavy languid steps, this fear gave +place to pity; she remembered her mother's gentle superstition which +had prevented her from ever sending the hungry empty away, for fear +lest she herself should come to need bread. + +'Lassie,' said she to little Bella, who held a cake which Jeremiah's +housekeeper had given her tight in her hand, 'yon poor man theere is +hungry; will Bella give him her cake, and mother will make her +another to-morrow twice as big?' + +For this consideration, and with the feeling of satisfaction which a +good supper not an hour ago gives even to the hungry stomach of a +child of three years old, Bella, after some thought, graciously +assented to the sacrifice. + +Sylvia stopped, the cake in her hand, and turned her back to the +town, and to the slow wayfarer in front. Under the cover of her +shawl she slipped a half-crown deep into the crumb of the cake, and +then restoring it to little Bella, she gave her her directions. + +'Mammy will carry Bella; and when Bella goes past the poor man, she +shall give him the cake over mammy's shoulder. Poor man is so +hungry; and Bella and mammy have plenty to eat, and to spare.' + +The child's heart was touched by the idea of hunger, and her little +arm was outstretched ready for the moment her mother's hurried steps +took her brushing past the startled, trembling Philip. + +'Poor man, eat this; Bella not hungry.' + +They were the first words he had ever heard his child utter. The +echoes of them rang in his ears as he stood endeavouring to hide his +disfigured face by looking over the parapet of the bridge down upon +the stream running away towards the ocean, into which his hot tears +slowly fell, unheeded by the weeper. Then he changed the intention +with which he had set out upon his nightly walk, and turned back to +his lodging. + +Of course the case was different with Sylvia; she would have +forgotten the whole affair very speedily, if it had not been for +little Bella's frequent recurrence to the story of the hungry man, +which had touched her small sympathies with the sense of an +intelligible misfortune. She liked to act the dropping of the bun +into the poor man's hand as she went past him, and would take up any +article near her in order to illustrate the gesture she had used. +One day she got hold of Hester's watch for this purpose, as being of +the same round shape as the cake; and though Hester, for whose +benefit the child was repeating the story in her broken language for +the third or fourth time, tried to catch the watch as it was +intended that she should (she being the representative of the +'hungry man' for the time being), it went to the ground with a smash +that frightened the little girl, and she began to cry at the +mischief she had done. + +'Don't cry, Bella,' said Hester. 'Niver play with watches again. I +didn't see thee at mine, or I'd ha' stopped thee in time. But I'll +take it to old Darley's on th' quay-side, and maybe he'll soon set +it to rights again. Only Bella must niver play with watches again.' + +'Niver no more!' promised the little sobbing child. And that evening +Hester took her watch down to old Darley's. + +This William Darley was the brother of the gardener at the rectory; +the uncle to the sailor who had been shot by the press-gang years +before, and to his bed-ridden sister. He was a clever mechanician, +and his skill as a repairer of watches and chronometers was great +among the sailors, with whom he did a very irregular sort of +traffic, conducted. often without much use of money, but rather on +the principle of barter, they bringing him foreign coins and odd +curiosities picked up on their travels in exchange for his services +to their nautical instruments or their watches. If he had ever had +capital to extend his business, he might have been a rich man; but +it is to be doubted whether he would have been as happy as he was +now in his queer little habitation of two rooms, the front one being +both shop and workshop, the other serving the double purpose of +bedroom and museum. + +The skill of this odd-tempered, shabby old man was sometimes sought +by the jeweller who kept the more ostentatious shop in the High +Street; but before Darley would undertake any 'tickle' piece of +delicate workmanship for the other, he sneered at his ignorance, and +taunted and abused him well. Yet he had soft places in his heart, +and Hester Rose had found her way to one by her patient, enduring +kindness to his bed-ridden niece. He never snarled at her as he did +at too many; and on the few occasions when she had asked him to do +anything for her, he had seemed as if she were conferring the favour +on him, not he on her, and only made the smallest possible charge. + +She found him now sitting where he could catch the most light for +his work, spectacles on nose, and microscope in hand. + +He took her watch, and examined it carefully without a word in reply +to her. Then he began to open it and take it to pieces, in order to +ascertain the nature of the mischief. + +Suddenly he heard her catch her breath with a checked sound of +surprise. He looked at her from above his spectacles; she was +holding a watch in her hand which she had just taken up off the +counter. + +'What's amiss wi' thee now?' said Darley. 'Hast ta niver seen a +watch o' that mak' afore? or is it them letters on t' back, as is so +wonderful?' + +Yes, it was those letters--that interlaced, old-fashioned cipher. +That Z. H. that she knew of old stood for Zachary Hepburn, Philip's +father. She knew how Philip valued this watch. She remembered having +seen it in his hands the very day before his disappearance, when he +was looking at the time in his annoyance at Sylvia's detention in +her walk with baby. Hester had no doubt that he had taken this watch +as a matter of course away with him. She felt sure that he would not +part with this relic of his dead father on any slight necessity. +Where, then, was Philip?--by what chance of life or death had this, +his valued property, found its way once more to Monkshaven? + +'Where did yo' get this?' she asked, in as quiet a manner as she +could assume, sick with eagerness as she was. + +To no one else would Darley have answered such a question. He made a +mystery of most of his dealings; not that he had anything to +conceal, but simply because he delighted in concealment. He took it +out of her hands, looked at the number marked inside, and the +maker's name--'Natteau Gent, York'--and then replied,-- + +'A man brought it me yesterday, at nightfall, for t' sell it. It's a +matter o' forty years old. Natteau Gent has been dead and in his +grave pretty nigh as long as that. But he did his work well when he +were alive; and so I gave him as brought it for t' sell about as +much as it were worth, i' good coin. A tried him first i' t' +bartering line, but he wouldn't bite; like enough he wanted +food,--many a one does now-a-days.' + +'Who was he?' gasped Hester. + +'Bless t' woman! how should I know?' + +'What was he like?--how old?--tell me.' + +'My lass, a've summut else to do wi' my eyes than go peering into +men's faces i' t' dusk light.' + +'But yo' must have had light for t' judge about the watch.' + +'Eh! how sharp we are! A'd a candle close to my nose. But a didn't +tak' it up for to gaze int' his face. That wouldn't be manners, to +my thinking.' + +Hester was silent. Then Darley's heart relented. + +'If yo're so set upo' knowing who t' fellow was, a could, mebbe, put +yo' on his tracks.' + +'How?' said Hester, eagerly. 'I do want to know. I want to know very +much, and for a good reason.' + +'Well, then, a'll tell yo'. He's a queer tyke, that one is. A'll be +bound he were sore pressed for t' brass; yet he out's wi' a good +half-crown, all wrapped up i' paper, and he axes me t' make a hole +in it. Says I, "It's marring good king's coin, at after a've made a +hole in't, it'll never pass current again." So he mumbles, and +mumbles, but for a' that it must needs be done; and he's left it +here, and is t' call for 't to-morrow at e'en.' + +'Oh, William Darley!' said Hester, clasping her hands tight +together. 'Find out who he is, where he is--anything--everything +about him--and I will so bless yo'.' + +Darley looked at her sharply, but with some signs of sympathy on his +grave face. 'My woman,' he said 'a could ha' wished as you'd niver +seen t' watch. It's poor, thankless work thinking too much on one o' +God's creatures. But a'll do thy bidding,' he continued, in a +lighter and different tone. 'A'm a 'cute old badger when need be. +Come for thy watch in a couple o' days, and a'll tell yo' all as +a've learnt.' + +So Hester went away, her heart beating with the promise of knowing +something about Philip,--how much, how little, in these first +moments, she dared not say even to herself. Some sailor newly landed +from distant seas might have become possessed of Philip's watch in +far-off latitudes; in which case, Philip would be dead. That might +be. She tried to think that this was the most probable way of +accounting for the watch. She could be certain as to the positive +identity of the watch--being in William Darley's possession. Again, +it might be that Philip himself was near at hand--was here in this +very place--starving, as too many were, for insufficiency of means +to buy the high-priced food. And then her heart burnt within her as +she thought of the succulent, comfortable meals which Sylvia +provided every day--nay, three times a day--for the household in the +market-place, at the head of which Philip ought to have been; but +his place knew him not. For Sylvia had inherited her mother's talent +for housekeeping, and on her, in Alice's decrepitude and Hester's +other occupations in the shop, devolved the cares of due provision +for the somewhat heterogeneous family. + +And Sylvia! Hester groaned in heart over the remembrance of Sylvia's +words, 'I can niver forgive him the wrong he did to me,' that night +when Hester had come, and clung to her, making the sad, shameful +confession of her unreturned love. + +What could ever bring these two together again? Could Hester +herself--ignorant of the strange mystery of Sylvia's heart, as those +who are guided solely by obedience to principle must ever be of the +clue to the actions of those who are led by the passionate ebb and +flow of impulse? Could Hester herself? Oh! how should she speak, how +should she act, if Philip were near--if Philip were sad and in +miserable estate? Her own misery at this contemplation of the case +was too great to bear; and she sought her usual refuge in the +thought of some text, some promise of Scripture, which should +strengthen her faith. + +'With God all things are possible,' said she, repeating the words as +though to lull her anxiety to rest. + +Yes; with God all things are possible. But ofttimes He does his work +with awful instruments. There is a peacemaker whose name is Death. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +SAVED AND LOST + + + + + +Hester went out on the evening of the day after that on which the +unknown owner of the half-crown had appointed to call for it again +at William Darley's. She had schooled herself to believe that time +and patience would serve her best. Her plan was to obtain all the +knowledge about Philip that she could in the first instance; and +then, if circumstances allowed it, as in all probability they would, +to let drop by drop of healing, peacemaking words and thoughts fall +on Sylvia's obdurate, unforgiving heart. So Hester put on her +things, and went out down towards the old quay-side on that evening +after the shop was closed. + +Poor little Sylvia! She was unforgiving, but not obdurate to the full +extent of what Hester believed. Many a time since Philip went away +had she unconsciously missed his protecting love; when folks spoke +shortly to her, when Alice scolded her as one of the non-elect, when +Hester's gentle gravity had something of severity in it; when her +own heart failed her as to whether her mother would have judged that +she had done well, could that mother have known all, as possibly she +did by this time. Philip had never spoken otherwise than tenderly to +her during the eighteen months of their married life, except on the +two occasions before recorded: once when she referred to her dream +of Kinraid's possible return, and once again on the evening of the +day before her discovery of his concealment of the secret of +Kinraid's involuntary disappearance. + +After she had learnt that Kinraid was married, her heart had still +more strongly turned to Philip; she thought that he had judged +rightly in what he had given as the excuse for his double dealing; +she was even more indignant at Kinraid's fickleness than she had any +reason to be; and she began to learn the value of such enduring love +as Philip's had been--lasting ever since the days when she first +began to fancy what a man's love for a woman should be, when she had +first shrunk from the tone of tenderness he put into his especial +term for her, a girl of twelve--'Little lassie,' as he was wont to +call her. + +But across all this relenting came the shadow of her vow--like the +chill of a great cloud passing over a sunny plain. How should she +decide? what would be her duty, if he came again, and once more +called her 'wife'? She shrank from such a possibility with all the +weakness and superstition of her nature; and this it was which made +her strengthen herself with the re-utterance of unforgiving words; +and shun all recurrence to the subject on the rare occasion when +Hester had tried to bring it back, with a hope of softening the +heart which to her appeared altogether hardened on this one point. + +Now, on this bright summer evening, while Hester had gone down to +the quay-side, Sylvia stood with her out-of-door things on in the +parlour, rather impatiently watching the sky, full of hurrying +clouds, and flushing with the warm tints of the approaching sunset. +She could not leave Alice: the old woman had grown so infirm that +she was never left by her daughter and Sylvia at the same time; yet +Sylvia had to fetch her little girl from the New Town, where she had +been to her supper at Jeremiah Foster's. Hester had said that she +should not be away more than a quarter of an hour; and Hester was +generally so punctual that any failure of hers, in this respect, +appeared almost in the light of an injury on those who had learnt to +rely upon her. Sylvia wanted to go and see widow Dobson, and learn +when Kester might be expected home. His two months were long past; +and Sylvia had heard through the Fosters of some suitable and +profitable employment for him, of which she thought he would be glad +to know as soon as possible. It was now some time since she had been +able to get so far as across the bridge; and, for aught she knew, +Kester might already be come back from his expedition to the +Cheviots. Kester was come back. Scarce five minutes had elapsed +after these thoughts had passed through her mind before his hasty +hand lifted the latch of the kitchen-door, his hurried steps brought +him face to face with her. The smile of greeting was arrested on her +lips by one look at him: his eyes staring wide, the expression on +his face wild, and yet pitiful. + +'That's reet,' said he, seeing that her things were already on. +'Thou're wanted sore. Come along.' + +'Oh! dear God! my child!' cried Sylvia, clutching at the chair near +her; but recovering her eddying senses with the strong fact before +her that whatever the terror was, she was needed to combat it. + +'Ay; thy child!' said Kester, taking her almost roughly by the arm, +and drawing her away with him out through the open doors on to the +quay-side. + +'Tell me!' said Sylvia, faintly, 'is she dead?' + +'She's safe now,' said Kester. 'It's not her--it's him as saved her +as needs yo', if iver husband needed a wife.' + +'He?--who? O Philip! Philip! is it yo' at last?' + +Unheeding what spectators might see her movements, she threw up her +arms and staggered against the parapet of the bridge they were then +crossing. + +'He!--Philip!--saved Bella? Bella, our little Bella, as got her +dinner by my side, and went out wi' Jeremiah, as well as could be. I +cannot take it in; tell me, Kester.' She kept trembling so much in +voice and in body, that he saw she could not stir without danger of +falling until she was calmed; as it was, her eyes became filmy from +time to time, and she drew her breath in great heavy pants, leaning +all the while against the wall of the bridge. + +'It were no illness,' Kester began. 'T' little un had gone for a +walk wi' Jeremiah Foster, an' he were drawn for to go round t' edge +o' t' cliff, wheere they's makin' t' new walk reet o'er t' sea. But +it's but a bit on a pathway now; an' t' one was too oud, an' t' +other too young for t' see t' water comin' along wi' great leaps; +it's allays for comin' high up again' t' cliff, an' this spring-tide +it's comin' in i' terrible big waves. Some one said as they passed +t' man a-sittin' on a bit on a rock up above--a dunnot know, a only +know as a heared a great fearful screech i' t' air. A were just +a-restin' me at after a'd comed in, not half an hour i' t' place. +A've walked better nor a dozen mile to-day; an' a ran out, an' a +looked, an' just on t' walk, at t' turn, was t' swish of a wave +runnin' back as quick as t' mischief int' t' sea, an' oud Jeremiah +standin' like one crazy, lookin' o'er int' t' watter; an' like a +stroke o' leeghtnin' comes a man, an' int' t' very midst o' t' great +waves like a shot; an' then a knowed summut were in t' watter as +were nearer death than life; an' a seemed to misdoubt me that it +were our Bella; an' a shouts an' a cries for help, an' a goes mysel' +to t' very edge o' t' cliff, an' a bids oud Jeremiah, as was like +one beside hissel', houd tight on me, for he were good for nought +else; an' a bides my time, an' when a sees two arms houdin' out a +little drippin' streamin' child, a clutches her by her waist-band, +an' hauls her to land. She's noane t' worse for her bath, a'll be +bound.' + +'I mun go--let me,' said Sylvia, struggling with his detaining hand, +which he had laid upon her in the fear that she would slip down to +the ground in a faint, so ashen-gray was her face. 'Let me,--Bella, +I mun go see her.' + +He let go, and she stood still, suddenly feeling herself too weak to +stir. + +'Now, if you'll try a bit to be quiet, a'll lead yo' along; but yo' +mun be a steady and brave lass.' + +'I'll be aught if yo' only let me see Bella,' said Sylvia, humbly. + +'An' yo' niver ax at after him as saved her,' said Kester, +reproachfully. + +'I know it's Philip,' she whispered, 'and yo' said he wanted me; so +I know he's safe; and, Kester, I think I'm 'feared on him, and I'd +like to gather courage afore seeing him, and a look at Bella would +give me courage. It were a terrible time when I saw him last, and I +did say--' + +'Niver think on what thou did say; think on what thou will say to +him now, for he lies a-dyin'! He were dashed again t' cliff an' +bruised sore in his innards afore t' men as come wi' a boat could +pick him up.' + +She did not speak; she did not even tremble now; she set her teeth +together, and, holding tight by Kester, she urged him on; but when +they came to the end of the bridge, she seemed uncertain which way +to turn. + +'This way,' said Kester. 'He's been lodgin' wi' Sally this nine +week, an' niver a one about t' place as knowed him; he's been i' t' +wars an' getten his face brunt.' + +'And he was short o' food,' moaned Sylvia, 'and we had plenty, and I +tried to make yo'r sister turn him out, and send him away. Oh! will +God iver forgive me?' + +Muttering to herself, breaking her mutterings with sharp cries of +pain, Sylvia, with Kester's help, reached widow Dobson's house. It +was no longer a quiet, lonely dwelling. Several sailors stood about +the door, awaiting, in silent anxiety, for the verdict of the +doctor, who was even now examining Philip's injuries. Two or three +women stood talking eagerly, in low voices, in the doorway. + +But when Sylvia drew near the men fell back; and the women moved +aside as though to allow her to pass, all looking upon her with a +certain amount of sympathy, but perhaps with rather more of +antagonistic wonder as to how she was taking it--she who had been +living in ease and comfort while her husband's shelter was little +better than a hovel, her husband's daily life a struggle with +starvation; for so much of the lodger at widow Dobson's was +popularly known; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a tramp +was quite forgotten now. + +Sylvia felt the hardness of their looks, the hardness of their +silence; but it was as nothing to her. If such things could have +touched her at this moment, she would not have stood still right in +the midst of their averted hearts, and murmured something to Kester. +He could not hear the words uttered by that hoarse choked voice, +until he had stooped down and brought his ear to the level of her +mouth. + +'We'd better wait for t' doctors to come out,' she said again. She +stood by the door, shivering all over, almost facing the people in +the road, but with her face turned a little to the right, so that +they thought she was looking at the pathway on the cliff-side, a +hundred yards or so distant, below which the hungry waves still +lashed themselves into high ascending spray; while nearer to the +cottage, where their force was broken by the bar at the entrance to +the river, they came softly lapping up the shelving shore. + +Sylvia saw nothing of all this, though it was straight before her +eyes. She only saw a blurred mist; she heard no sound of waters, +though it filled the ears of those around. Instead she heard low +whispers pronouncing Philip's earthly doom. + +For the doctors were both agreed; his internal injury was of a +mortal kind, although, as the spine was severely injured above the +seat of the fatal bruise, he had no pain in the lower half of his +body. + +They had spoken in so low a tone that John Foster, standing only a +foot or so away, had not been able to hear their words. But Sylvia +heard each syllable there where she stood outside, shivering all +over in the sultry summer evening. She turned round to Kester. + +'I mun go to him, Kester; thou'll see that noane come in to us, when +t' doctors come out.' + +She spoke in a soft, calm voice; and he, not knowing what she had +heard, made some easy conditional promise. Then those opposite to +the cottage door fell back, for they could see the grave doctors +coming out, and John Foster, graver, sadder still, following them. +Without a word to them,--without a word even of inquiry--which many +outside thought and spoke of as strange--white-faced, dry-eyed +Sylvia slipped into the house out of their sight. + +And the waves kept lapping on the shelving shore. + +The room inside was dark, all except the little halo or circle of +light made by a dip candle. Widow Dobson had her back to the +bed--her bed--on to which Philip had been borne in the hurry of +terror as to whether he was alive or whether he was dead. She was +crying--crying quietly, but the tears down-falling fast, as, with +her back to the lowly bed, she was gathering up the dripping clothes +cut off from the poor maimed body by the doctors' orders. She only +shook her head as she saw Sylvia, spirit-like, steal in--white, +noiseless, and upborne from earth. + +But noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recognized, and +with a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to the wall, hiding +it in the shadow. + +He knew that she was by him; that she had knelt down by his bed; +that she was kissing his hand, over which the languor of approaching +death was stealing. But no one spoke. + +At length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an effort. + +'Little lassie, forgive me now! I cannot live to see the morn!' + +There was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, and he felt her +soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that ran through her +whole body. + +'I did thee a cruel wrong,' he said, at length. 'I see it now. But +I'm a dying man. I think that God will forgive me--and I've sinned +against Him; try, lassie--try, my Sylvie--will not thou forgive me?' + +He listened intently for a moment. He heard through the open window +the waves lapping on the shelving shore. But there came no word from +her; only that same long shivering, miserable sigh broke from her +lips at length. + +'Child,' said he, once more. 'I ha' made thee my idol; and if I +could live my life o'er again I would love my God more, and thee +less; and then I shouldn't ha' sinned this sin against thee. But +speak one word of love to me--one little word, that I may know I +have thy pardon.' + +'Oh, Philip! Philip!' she moaned, thus adjured. + +Then she lifted her head, and said, + +'Them were wicked, wicked words, as I said; and a wicked vow as I +vowed; and Lord God Almighty has ta'en me at my word. I'm sorely +punished, Philip, I am indeed.' + +He pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek. But he asked for yet +another word. + +'I did thee a wrong. In my lying heart I forgot to do to thee as I +would have had thee to do to me. And I judged Kinraid in my heart.' + +'Thou thought as he was faithless and fickle,' she answered quickly; +'and so he were. He were married to another woman not so many weeks +at after thou went away. Oh, Philip, Philip! and now I have thee +back, and--' + +'Dying' was the word she would have said, but first the dread of +telling him what she believed he did not know, and next her +passionate sobs, choked her. + +'I know,' said he, once more stroking her cheek, and soothing her +with gentle, caressing hand. 'Little lassie!' he said, after a while +when she was quiet from very exhaustion, 'I niver thought to be so +happy again. God is very merciful.' + +She lifted up her head, and asked wildly, 'Will He iver forgive me, +think yo'? I drove yo' out fra' yo'r home, and sent yo' away to t' +wars, wheere yo' might ha' getten yo'r death; and when yo' come +back, poor and lone, and weary, I told her for t' turn yo' out, for +a' I knew yo' must be starving in these famine times. I think I +shall go about among them as gnash their teeth for iver, while yo' +are wheere all tears are wiped away.' + +'No!' said Philip, turning round his face, forgetful of himself in +his desire to comfort her. 'God pities us as a father pities his +poor wandering children; the nearer I come to death the clearer I +see Him. But you and me have done wrong to each other; yet we can +see now how we were led to it; we can pity and forgive one another. +I'm getting low and faint, lassie; but thou must remember this: God +knows more, and is more forgiving than either you to me, or me to +you. I think and do believe as we shall meet together before His +face; but then I shall ha' learnt to love thee second to Him; not +first, as I have done here upon the earth.' + +Then he was silent--very still. Sylvia knew--widow Dobson had +brought it in--that there was some kind of medicine, sent by the +hopeless doctors, lying upon the table hard by, and she softly rose +and poured it out and dropped it into the half-open mouth. Then she +knelt down again, holding the hand feebly stretched out to her, and +watching the faint light in the wistful loving eyes. And in the +stillness she heard the ceaseless waves lapping against the shelving +shore. + +Something like an hour before this time, which was the deepest +midnight of the summer's night, Hester Rose had come hurrying up the +road to where Kester and his sister sate outside the open door, +keeping their watch under the star-lit sky, all others having gone +away, one by one, even John and Jeremiah Foster having returned to +their own house, where the little Bella lay, sleeping a sound and +healthy slumber after her perilous adventure. + +Hester had heard but little from William Darley as to the owner of +the watch and the half-crown; but he was chagrined at the failure of +all his skilful interrogations to elicit the truth, and promised her +further information in a few days, with all the more vehemence +because he was unaccustomed to be baffled. And Hester had again +whispered to herself 'Patience! Patience!' and had slowly returned +back to her home to find that Sylvia had left it, why she did not at +once discover. But, growing uneasy as the advancing hours neither +brought Sylvia nor little Bella to their home, she had set out for +Jeremiah Foster's as soon as she had seen her mother comfortably +asleep in her bed; and then she had learnt the whole story, bit by +bit, as each person who spoke broke in upon the previous narration +with some new particular. But from no one did she clearly learn +whether Sylvia was with her husband, or not; and so she came +speeding along the road, breathless, to where Kester sate in +wakeful, mournful silence, his sister's sleeping head lying on his +shoulder, the cottage door open, both for air and that there might +be help within call if needed; and the dim slanting oblong of the +interior light lying across the road. + +Hester came panting up, too agitated and breathless to ask how much +was truth of the fatal, hopeless tale which she had heard. Kester +looked at her without a word. Through this solemn momentary silence +the lapping of the ceaseless waves was heard, as they came up close +on the shelving shore. + +'He? Philip?' said she. Kester shook his head sadly. + +'And his wife--Sylvia?' said Hester. + +'In there with him, alone,' whispered Kester. + +Hester turned away, and wrung her hands together. + +'Oh, Lord God Almighty!' said she, 'was I not even worthy to bring +them together at last?' And she went away slowly and heavily back to +the side of her sleeping mother. But 'Thy will be done' was on her +quivering lips before she lay down to her rest. + +The soft gray dawn lightens the darkness of a midsummer night soon +after two o'clock. Philip watched it come, knowing that it was his +last sight of day,--as we reckon days on earth. + +He had been often near death as a soldier; once or twice, as when he +rushed into fire to save Kinraid, his chances of life had been as +one to a hundred; but yet he had had a chance. But now there was the +new feeling--the last new feeling which we shall any of us +experience in this world--that death was not only close at hand, +but inevitable. + +He felt its numbness stealing up him--stealing up him. But the head +was clear, the brain more than commonly active in producing vivid +impressions. + +It seemed but yesterday since he was a little boy at his mother's +knee, wishing with all the earnestness of his childish heart to be +like Abraham, who was called the friend of God, or David, who was +said to be the man after God's own heart, or St John, who was called +'the Beloved.' As very present seemed the day on which he made +resolutions of trying to be like them; it was in the spring, and +some one had brought in cowslips; and the scent of those flowers was +in his nostrils now, as he lay a-dying--his life ended, his battles +fought, his time for 'being good' over and gone--the opportunity, +once given in all eternity, past. + +All the temptations that had beset him rose clearly before him; the +scenes themselves stood up in their solid materialism--he could have +touched the places; the people, the thoughts, the arguments that +Satan had urged in behalf of sin, were reproduced with the vividness +of a present time. And he knew that the thoughts were illusions, the +arguments false and hollow; for in that hour came the perfect vision +of the perfect truth: he saw the 'way to escape' which had come +along with the temptation; now, the strong resolve of an ardent +boyhood, with all a life before it to show the world 'what a +Christian might be'; and then the swift, terrible now, when his +naked, guilty soul shrank into the shadow of God's mercy-seat, out +of the blaze of His anger against all those who act a lie. + +His mind was wandering, and he plucked it back. Was this death in +very deed? He tried to grasp at the present, the earthly present, +fading quick away. He lay there on the bed--on Sally Dobson's bed in +the house-place, not on his accustomed pallet in the lean-to. He +knew that much. And the door was open into the still, dusk night; +and through the open casement he could hear the lapping of the waves +on the shelving shore, could see the soft gray dawn over the sea--he +knew it was over the sea--he saw what lay unseen behind the poor +walls of the cottage. And it was Sylvia who held his hand tight in +her warm, living grasp; it was his wife whose arm was thrown around +him, whose sobbing sighs shook his numbed frame from time to time. + +'God bless and comfort my darling,' he said to himself. 'She knows +me now. All will be right in heaven--in the light of God's mercy.' + +And then he tried to remember all that he had ever read about, God, +and all that the blessed Christ--that bringeth glad tidings of great +joy unto all people, had said of the Father, from whom He came. +Those sayings dropped like balm down upon his troubled heart and +brain. He remembered his mother, and how she had loved him; and he +was going to a love wiser, tenderer, deeper than hers. + +As he thought this, he moved his hands as if to pray; but Sylvia +clenched her hold, and he lay still, praying all the same for her, +for his child, and for himself. Then he saw the sky redden with the +first flush of dawn; he heard Kester's long-drawn sigh of weariness +outside the open door. + +He had seen widow Dobson pass through long before to keep the +remainder of her watch on the bed in the lean-to, which had been his +for many and many a sleepless and tearful night. Those nights were +over--he should never see that poor chamber again, though it was +scarce two feet distant. He began to lose all sense of the +comparative duration of time: it seemed as long since kind Sally +Dobson had bent over him with soft, lingering look, before going +into the humble sleeping-room--as long as it was since his boyhood, +when he stood by his mother dreaming of the life that should be his, +with the scent of the cowslips tempting him to be off to the +woodlands where they grew. Then there came a rush and an eddying +through his brain--his soul trying her wings for the long flight. +Again he was in the present: he heard the waves lapping against the +shelving shore once again. + +And now his thoughts came back to Sylvia. Once more he spoke aloud, +in a strange and terrible voice, which was not his. Every sound came +with efforts that were new to him. + +'My wife! Sylvie! Once more--forgive me all.' + +She sprang up, she kissed his poor burnt lips; she held him in her +arms, she moaned, and said, + +'Oh, wicked me! forgive me--me--Philip!' + +Then he spoke, and said, 'Lord, forgive us our trespasses as we +forgive each other!' And after that the power of speech was +conquered by the coming death. He lay very still, his consciousness +fast fading away, yet coming back in throbs, so that he knew it was +Sylvia who touched his lips with cordial, and that it was Sylvia who +murmured words of love in his ear. He seemed to sleep at last, and +so he did--a kind of sleep, but the light of the red morning sun +fell on his eyes, and with one strong effort he rose up, and turned +so as once more to see his wife's pale face of misery. + +'In heaven,' he cried, and a bright smile came on his face, as he +fell back on his pillow. + +Not long after Hester came, the little Bella scarce awake in her +arms, with the purpose of bringing his child to see him ere yet he +passed away. Hester had watched and prayed through the livelong +night. And now she found him dead, and Sylvia, tearless and almost +unconscious, lying by him, her hand holding his, her other thrown +around him. + +Kester, poor old man, was sobbing bitterly; but she not at all. + +Then Hester bore her child to her, and Sylvia opened wide her +miserable eyes, and only stared, as if all sense was gone from her. +But Bella suddenly rousing up at the sight of the poor, scarred, +peaceful face, cried out,-- + +'Poor man who was so hungry. Is he not hungry now?' + +'No,' said Hester, softly. 'The former things are passed away--and +he is gone where there is no more sorrow, and no more pain.' + +But then she broke down into weeping and crying. Sylvia sat up and +looked at her. + +'Why do yo' cry, Hester?' she said. 'Yo' niver said that yo' +wouldn't forgive him as long as yo' lived. Yo' niver broke the heart +of him that loved yo', and let him almost starve at yo'r very door. +Oh, Philip! my Philip, tender and true.' + +Then Hester came round and closed the sad half-open eyes; kissing +the calm brow with a long farewell kiss. As she did so, her eye fell +on a black ribbon round his neck. She partly lifted it out; to it +was hung a half-crown piece. + +'This is the piece he left at William Darley's to be bored,' said +she, 'not many days ago.' + +Bella had crept to her mother's arms as a known haven in this +strange place; and the touch of his child loosened the fountains of +her tears. She stretched out her hand for the black ribbon, put it +round her own neck; after a while she said, + +'If I live very long, and try hard to be very good all that time, do +yo' think, Hester, as God will let me to him where he is?' + +* * * * * * * + +Monkshaven is altered now into a rising bathing place. Yet, standing +near the site of widow Dobson's house on a summer's night, at the +ebb of a spring-tide, you may hear the waves come lapping up the +shelving shore with the same ceaseless, ever-recurrent sound as that +which Philip listened to in the pauses between life and death. + +And so it will be until 'there shall be no more sea'. + +But the memory of man fades away. A few old people can still tell +you the tradition of the man who died in a cottage somewhere about +this spot,--died of starvation while his wife lived in hard-hearted +plenty not two good stone-throws away. This is the form into which +popular feeling, and ignorance of the real facts, have moulded the +story. Not long since a lady went to the 'Public Baths', a handsome +stone building erected on the very site of widow Dobson's cottage, +and finding all the rooms engaged she sat down and had some talk +with the bathing woman; and, as it chanced, the conversation fell on +Philip Hepburn and the legend of his fate. + +'I knew an old man when I was a girl,' said the bathing woman, 'as +could niver abide to hear t' wife blamed. He would say nothing +again' th' husband; he used to say as it were not fit for men to be +judging; that she had had her sore trial, as well as Hepburn +hisself.' + +The lady asked, 'What became of the wife?' + +'She was a pale, sad woman, allays dressed in black. I can just +remember her when I was a little child, but she died before her +daughter was well grown up; and Miss Rose took t' lassie, as had +always been like her own.' + +'Miss Rose?' + +'Hester Rose! have yo' niver heared of Hester Rose, she as founded +t' alms-houses for poor disabled sailors and soldiers on t' +Horncastle road? There's a piece o' stone in front to say that "This +building is erected in memory of P. H."--and some folk will have it +P. H. stands for t' name o' th' man as was starved to death.' + +'And the daughter?' + +'One o' th' Fosters, them as founded t' Old Bank, left her a vast o' +money; and she were married to distant cousin of theirs, and went +off to settle in America many and many a year ago.' + +THE END. + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Sylvia's Lovers Vol. III, by Elizabeth Gaskell + diff --git a/old/slvl310.zip b/old/slvl310.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..017fb68 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/slvl310.zip |