 24. Daniel's Unusually Late Absence from Home Disturbed Bell in Sylvia Not a Little. He was generally at home between 8 and 9 on market days. They expected to see him the worst for liqueur at such times, but this did not shock them. He was no worse than most of his neighbours. Indeed better than several who went off once or twice a year, or even oftener, on drinking bouts of two or three days duration, returning pale, sodden and somewhat shame-faced, when all their money was gone, and after the conjugal reception was well over, settling down into hard-working, and decently sober men, until the temptation again got power over them. But on market days every man drank more than usual. Every bargain or agreement was ratified by drink. They came from greater or less distances, either a foot or on horseback, and the good accommodation for a man and beast, as the old insigns expressed it, always included a considerable amount of liqueur to be drunk by the man. Daniel's way of announcing his intention of drinking more than ordinary was always the same. He would say at the last moment, Mrs. I have a mind to get fuddle to and be off disregarding her look of remonstrance, and little heeding the injunction she would call after him to beware of such and such companions or to attend to his footsteps on his road home. But this night he had given no such warning. Bell and Sylvia put the candle on the low-window seat at the usual hour to guide him through the fields. It was a habit kept up even on moonlight nights like this, and set on each side of the fire, at first scarcely caring to listen, so secure were they of his return. Bell dozed and Sylvia sat, gazing at the fire with abstracted eyes, thinking of the past year, and of the anniversary which was approaching of the day when she had last seen the lover, whom she believed to be dead, lying somewhere faith-hums deep beneath the surface of that sunny sea on which she looked day by day without ever seeing his upturned face through the depths. With whatsoever heart-sick longing, for just one more sight she yearned and inwardly cried. If she could set her eyes on his bright, handsome face, that face which was fading from her memory, overtasked in the two frequent efforts to recall it, if she could see him but once again, coming over the waters beneath which he lay, with supernatural motion, awaiting her at the evening sun shining rudely into his bony eyes, even though after that one instant of vivid and visible life, he faded into mist, if she could see him now, sitting in the faintly flickering fire-light in the old, happy, careless way, on a corner of the dresser, his legs dangling, his busy fingers, playing with some of her woman's work. She wrung her hands tight together as she implored some, any power, to let her see him just once again, just once, for one minute of passionate delight. Never again would she forget that dear face, if but once more she might set her eyes upon it. Her mother's head fell with a sudden jerk, and she roused herself up, and Sylvia put by her thought of the dead, and her craving after his presence, into that receptacle of her heart where all such are kept closed and sacred from the light of common day. Feathers late, said Belle. It's gone eight, replied Sylvia. But our clock is better, nor an hour forward, answered Belle. Aye, but the wind brings monk-shaven bells clear tonight. I heard the eight o'clock bell ringing not five minutes ago. It was the fire bell, but she had not distinguished the sound. There was another long silence, both wide awake this time. He'll have his dramatics again, said Belle. It's cold for certain, said Sylvia. March weather come out four, it's time. But I'll make him a tracal posse. It's a famous thing for keeping off horses. The tracal posse was entertainment enough for both while it was being made. But once placed in a little basin in the oven, there was again time for wonder and anxiety. He said not about having a bow, did he, mother? Asked Sylvia at length. No, said Belle, her face a little contracting. After a while she added. There's many a one, as has husbands, that goes off drinking without ever saying a word to their wives. My master is none of that make. Mother, broke in Sylvia again. I'll just go and get the lantern out of the ship and go up to Brau and maybe to Ashfield Inn. Do less, said her mother. I'll get my wraps and go with thee. Thou shalt do never such a thing, said Sylvia. Thou's too frail to go out into night air, such a night as this. Then call Kester up. Not I. I'm no afraid of the dark. But of what thou may meet in the dark less? Sylvia shivered all over the sudden thought, suggested by this speech of her mother, that the idea that had flashed into her own mind of going to look for her father might be an answer to the invocation to the powers which she had made not long ago. That she might indeed meet her dead lover at the Ashfield style. But though she shivered as this superstitious fancy came into her head, her heartbeat, form and regular, not from darkness nor from the spirits of the dead, was she going to shrink. Her great sorrow had taken away all her girlish nervous fear. She went, and she came back. Neither man nor spirit had she seen. The wind was blowing on the height enough to sweep all creatures before it, but no one was coming. So they sat down again to keep watch. At length his step was hurt close to the door, and it startled them even in their state of expectation. Why father? cried Sylvia as he entered, while his wife stood up trembling but not saying a word. M almost done up, said he, sitting heavily down on the chair near the door. Poor old father, said Sylvia, stooping to take off his heavy clogged shoes, while well took the pose out of the oven. What's this, pose? What creature's women is for slops? said he, but he drank it all the same. While Sylvia fastened the door and brought the flaring candle from the window seat. The fresh arrangement of light displayed his face blackened with smoke, and his clothes disarranged and torn. Who's been melded with thee? asked Belle. No one has melded with me, but I have been melded with the gang at last. Thee? they never were for pressing thee, exclaimed both the women at once. No, they know'd better. Then, getting their belly full as it is, next time they try it on, I reckon they'll ask if Daniel Robson is within the hearing. I've led a rescue this neat, and saved nine or ten honest chefs as we pressed, and carried off to Rendee vows. Me and some others did it, and Hobbs' things and the left nuns is a burnt, and by this time I reckon the Rendee vows is pretty nigh four walls ready for a parish pound. Thou art never for saying, Thou burned it down, with the gang in it for sure, asked Belle. Na, na, not this time. The gang fled up the hill like conies, and Hobbs and his folks carried off a bag of money, but the outtumble down place is just a heap of brick and mortar, and the furniture is a small drain in its ashes, and best of all, the man is free, and will never be cost with a fire bell again. And so he went on to tell of the views by which they had been enticed into the marketplace, interrupted from time to time by their eager questions, and interrupting himself every now and then, with exclamations of weariness and pain, which made him at last say, Now I am willing to tell you about it tomorrow, for it's not every day a man can do such great things. But tonight I am in go to bed, even if King George were wanting to know how I managed it all. He verily went upstairs, and wife and daughter both strove their best to ease his aching limbs, and make him comfortable. The warming pen, only used on state occasions, was taken down and unpapered for his service, and as he got between the warm sheets, he thanked Sylvie and her mother in a sleeping voice, adding, It's a vast of comfort to think on young poor lads, as they sleep in their own homes this neat, and then slumber fell upon him, and he was hardly roused by bells softly kissing his weather-beaten cheek, and saying, God bless thee, my man, thou was always for them that was put down and put upon. He murmured some molosyllabic reply, unheard by his wife, who stole away to undress herself noiselessly, and laid herself down on her side of the bed, as gently as her stiffened limbs with permit. They were late in rising the next morning, Kester was long since up and at his work, among the cattle before he saw the house door open, to admit the fresh chilling morning air, and even then Sylvie brushed softly, and went about almost on tiptoe. When the porridge was ready, Kester was called into his breakfast, which he took sitting at the dresser with the family. A large wooden platter stood in the middle, and each had a bowl of the same material filled with milk. The way was for everyone to dip his putorous spoon into the central dish, and convey as much or as little as he liked at a time of the hot porridge into his pure fresh milk. But today Bell told Kester to help himself all at once, and to take his bowl up to the master's room and keep him company. For Daniel was in bed resting from his weariness, and bemoaning his painful bruises whenever he thought of them. But his mind was still so much occupied with the affair of the previous night, that Bell judged rightly that a new listener would give ease to his body as well as to his mind, and a proposal of Kester's carrying up his breakfast had been received by Daniel with satisfaction. So Kester went up slowly, carrying his over-full basin tenderly, and seated himself on the step leading down into the bedroom, for levels had not been calculated when the old house was built. Facing his master, who half sitting up in the blue check bed, not unwillingly began his relation again, to which Kester listened so attentively that his spoon was often arrested in progress from the basin to his mouth, opened ready to receive it, while he gazed with unwinking eyes at Daniel narrating his exploits. But after Daniel had fought his battle over again to every auditor within his reach, he found the seclusion of his chamber rather oppressive. Without even the usual weekday's noises below, so after dinner, though far from well, he came down and wandered about the stable and the fields nearest to the house, consulting with Kester as to crops and manure for the most part, but every now and then breaking out into an episodical chuckle over some part of the last night's proceedings. Kester enjoyed the day even more than his master, for he had no bruises to remind him that although a hero, he was also flesh and blood. When they returned to the house, they found Philip there, for it was already dusk. It was Kester's usual Sunday plan to withdraw to bed as early as an hour, as he could manage to sleep, often in winter before six, but now he was too full of interest in what Philip might have to tell of the Munchavin news to forego his sabbath privilege of spending the evening sitting on the chair at the end of the dresser behind the door. Philip was as close to Sylvia as he could possibly get without giving her offence when they came in. Her manner was listless and civil, she had lost all that active feeling towards him which made him positively distasteful, and had called out her girlish irritation and impertinence. She now was rather glad to see him than otherwise, he brought some change into the heavy monotony of her life, monotony so peaceful until she had been astirred by passion out of that content with the small daily events which had now become burdensome recurrences. Insensibly to herself, she was becoming dependent on his timid devotion, his constant attention, and he, lover-like, once so attracted, in spite of his judgment by liveliness and pecuncy, now doted on a langer, and thought her silence more sweet than words. He had only just arrived when master and man came in, he had been to afternoon chapel, none of them had thought of going to the distant church, worship with them was only an occasional duty, and this day their minds had been too full of the events of the night before. Daniel set himself heavily down in the accustomed chair, the three cornered armchair in the fireside corner, which no one thought of anybody else ever occupying on any occasion whatever. In a minute or two he interrupted Philip's words of greeting an inquiry by breaking out into the story of the rescue of last night. But to the mute surprise of Sylvia, the only one who noticed it, Philip's face, instead of expressing admiration and pleasant wonder, lengthened into dismay, once or twice he began to interrupt, but stopped himself as if he would consider his words again. Kester was never tired of hearing his master's talk, but long living together they understood every fold of each other's minds, and his small expressions had much significance to them. Belle, too, said thankful that her husband should have done such deeds, only Sylvia was made uneasy by Philip's face and manner. When Daniel had ended, there was a great silence, instead of the questions and compliments he looked to receive. He became testy, and turning to Belle, he said. My nephew looked as though he was a thinking, more on the little profit he has made on his pins and bobs, than as if he were reading how honest men were saved from being hauled out to yawn tender, and carried out a sigh to wives and little ones forever. Wives and little ones may go to workhouse or claim for what he cares. Philip went very red, and then more shallow than usual. He had not been thinking of Charlie Kindred, but of quite another thing, while Daniel had told his story, but this was last speech of the old man's brought-up, the remembrance that was always quick. Do what he would do to smother or strangle it. He did not speak for a moment or two, then said. Today has not been like Sabath in Monshaven. The rioters, as folks call him, have been out about all night. They wanted to give battle to the men of war's men, and it were taken up by the better end. And they have sent to my lord Melton for the militia, and they are coming into town. And they are hunting for a justice for to read the act. Folks do say there will be a never a shop open tomorrow. This was rather a more serious account of the progress of the affair than anyone had calculated upon. They looked grave upon it a while, then Daniel took hard and said. I think we had done almost enough last night, but men's not to be stopped with a straw when their blood is up. Still it's hard lines to call out the soldiers, even if they be but militia. So what we seven hedged in a dark entry has taken a lot to put a stop to it. Continued he, chuckling a little, but more faintly this time. Philip went on is still graver than before, boldly continuing to say what he knew would be discordant to the family he loved so well. I should have told you all about it. I had thought on it just a bit on news. I'd never thought on such a thing as uncle there having been in it, and I am main sorry to hear on it, I am. Why? said Sylvia breathlessly. It's never a thing to be sorry on, I am proud and glad, said Belle. Let it be, let it be, said Daniel and much dudgeon. I were a fool to tell him of such like doings. There no end in his line. We'll talk on yard measures now. Philip took no notice of this poor attempted sarcasm he seemed as if lost in thought. Then he said, I'm vexed to plague you, but I'd best say all I've got in my mind. There was a vast of folk at our chapel speaking about it. Last night's doings and this morning's work, and how them, as said at a foot, was assured of being klept in the prison and tried for it. And when I heard uncle say as he was one, it like ran through me, for they say as the justices will all be on the garment size and made for vengeance. For an instant there was dead silence. The women looked at each other with blank eyes as if they were as yet unable to take in the new idea that the conduct which had seemed to them a subject for such pride could be regarded by anyone as deserving of punishment or retribution. Daniel spoke before they had recovered from their amazement. I am knowing sorry for what I did, and I'd do it again to night if need were. So there's for thee. Thou may tell the justices from me that I reckon I did writer nor them as Latin poor fellows be carried off in the very midst of town they are called justices for. Perhaps Philip had better have held his tongue, but he believed in the danger which he was anxious to impress upon his uncle in order that knowing what was to be apprehended, the latter might take some pains to avert it. He went on. But they are making a coil about the rendi vows being all destroyed. Daniel has taken down his pipe from the shelf in the chimney corner and was stuffing tobacco in the bowel. He went on pretending to do this a little while after it was filled for to tell the truth he was beginning to feel uncomfortable at the new view of his conduct presented him. Still he was not going to let this appear. So lifting up his head with an indifferent air he lighted the pipe, blew into it, took it out and examined it as something was wrong about it. And until that was put to rights he was unable to attend to anything else. All the while the faithful three who hung upon his well-being gazing breathless at his proceedings and anxious for his reply, rendi vows, said he at length. It were a good job it were burned down for such a harbour for vermin I never seen. The rares ran across the yard by hundreds and thousands and it were no man's property as I have heard tell, but belonged to Shansree up in London. So where's the harm done my fine fellow? Phillips was silent he did not care to brave any further his uncle's angry frown and contracted eye. If he had only known of Daniel Robinson's part in the riot before he had left the town he would have taken care to have had better authority for the reality of the danger which he had heard spoken about and in which he could not help believing. As it was he could only keep quiet until he had ascertained what was the legal peril overhanging the rioters and how far his uncle had been recognised. Daniel went on puffing angrily, cast her side audibly and then was sorry he had done so and begun to whistle. Bell full of her new fear yet desirous to bring all present into some kind of harmony said, it'll have been a loss to John Hobbes. All his things burnt or trampled on maybe he deserved it all but one's a kind of tender feelings to one's tables and chairs especially if one's had the bees vexing on them. I wish he had been burned on top of them I do growled Daniel shaking the ash out of his pipe. Don't speak so ill of thyself said his wife. Doubt had been the first to pluck him out if he had screeched out. An owl warrant if they come about with a paper asking for father's name to make up for what Hobbes has lost by the fire. Father will be forgiving him somewhat said Sylvia. Thou knows not about it said Daniel. Hold that tongue next time till thou's ask to speak my wench. His sharp irritated way of speaking was so new to Sylvia that the tears sprang to her eyes and her lip quivered. Philip saw it all and yearned over her. He planned to head long into some other subject to try and divert attention from her but Daniel was too ill at ease to talk much and Belle was obliged to try and keep up the semblance of the conversation with an occasional word or two from Kester who seemed instinctively to fall into her way of thinking and to endeavour to keep the dark thought in the background. Sylvia stole off to bed more concerned at her father's angry way of speaking than the idea of his being amenable to law for what he had done. The one was a sharp present evil, the other something distant and unlikely. Yet a dim terror of this later evil hung over her and once upstairs she threw herself on her bed and sobbed. Philip heard her where he sat near the bottom of the short steep staircase and at every sob the cords of love round his heart seemed tightened and he felt as if he must be there and do something to console her. But instead he sat on talking of nothings, a conversation in which Daniel joined with somewhat of sadness while Belle, grave and anxious kept wispily looking from one to the other desirous of gleaning some further information on the subject which had begun to trouble her mind. She hoped some chance would give her the opportunity of privately questioning Philip but it seemed to be equally her husband's wish to thwart any such intention of hers. He remained in the house place till after Philip had left, although he was evidently so much fatigued as to give some very distinct though unintentional hints to his visitor to be gone. At length the house door was locked on Philip and then Daniel prepared to go to bed. Caster has left for his loft above the ship and more than an hour before. Belle had still to rake the fire and then she would follow her husband upstairs. As she was scraping up the ashes she heard intermixed with the noise she was making, the sound of someone wrapping gently at the window. In her then frame of mind she started a little but on looking round she saw Caster's face pressed against the glass and reassured she softly opened the door. There he stood in the dusk outer air distinct against the grey darkness beyond and in his hand something which she presently perceived was a pitchfork. Mrs. whispered he, I have washed the master to bed and now I'd be greatly beholden to you if you'd let me just lay down in the house place. I'd warrant never a constable in a monk's shivan should get side of the master and me blow to keep ward. Belle shivered a little. Nay Caster, she said, patting her hand kindly on his shoulder. There's not for to fear, thy master is not one for the heart nobody and I do not think they can harm him for setting young poor chaps free as the gang cashed in their wicked trap. Caster stood still then he shook his head slowly. It's the work as the rendy vows as I'm feared on. Some folks think such a deal of a bonfire. Then I may lay down before the fire, Mrs. said he beseechingly. Nay Caster, she began but suddenly changing she said, God bless thee my man come in and lay thee down on the settle and I'll cover thee up with my cloak as hangs behind the door. We are not many on us that love him and we'll be all on us under one roof and never a stone wall or a lock between us. So Caster took up to rest in the house-place that night and no one knew of it besides Belle. End of Chapter 24. Recording by Zernas Chapter 25 Of Sylvia's Lovers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Sylvia's Lovers By Elizabeth Gaskell Chapter 25 Coming Troubles The morning brought more peace if it did not entirely dissipate fear. Daniel seemed to have got over his irritability and was unusually kind and tender to wife and daughter, especially striving by silent little deeds to make up for the sharp words he had said the night before to the latter. As if by common consent, all allusion to the Saturday night's proceedings was avoided. They spoke of the day's work before them, of the crops to be sown, of the cattle of the markets, but each one was conscious of a wish to know more distinctly what were the chances of the danger that to judge from Philip's words hung over them, falling upon them, and cutting them off from all these places for the coming days. Belle longed to send Caster down into Monkshaven as a sort of spy to see how the land lay, but she dared not manifest her anxiety to her husband and could not see Caster alone. She wished that she had told him to go to the town when she had had him to herself in the house-place the night before. Now it seemed as though Daniel were resolved not to part from him, and as though both had forgotten that any peril had been anticipated. Sylvia and her mother in like manner clung together, not speaking of their fears, yet each knowing that it was ever present in the other's mind. So things went on till twelve o'clock, dinnertime. If at any time that morning they had had the courage to speak together on the thought which was engrossing all their minds, it is possible that some means might have been found to avert the calamity that was coming towards them with swift feet. But among the uneducated, the partially educated, nay, even the weakly educated, the feeling exists which prompted the feudal experiment of the well-known ostrich. They imagine that by closing their own eyes to apprehended evil, they avert it. The expression of fear is supposed to accelerate the coming of its cause. Yet on the other hand, they shrink from acknowledging the long continuance of any blessing in the idea that when unusual happiness is spoken about, it disappears. So although perpetual complaints of past or present grievances and sorrows are most common among this class, they shrink from embodying apprehensions for the future in words, as if it then took shape and drew near. They all forsake down to dinner, but not one of them was inclined to eat. The food was scarcely touched on their plates, yet they were trying to make talk among themselves as usual. They seemed as though they dared not let themselves be silent. When Sylvia, sitting opposite to the window, saw Philip at the top of the brow, running rapidly towards the farm, she had been so full of the anticipation of some kind of misfortune all the morning, that she felt now, as if this was the very precursive circumstance she had been expecting, she stood up, turning quite white, and, pointing with her fingers, said, There he is! Everyone at the table stood up, too. An instant afterwards, Philip, breathless, was in the room. He gasped out, There coming! The warrant is out! You must go! I hoped you were gone! God help us, said Bell and Sage, suddenly down, as if she had received a blow that made her collapse into helplessness. But she got up again directly. Sylvia flew for her father's hat. He really seemed the most unmoved of the party. I'm known afeard, said he. I'd do it or again, I would. And I'll tell him so. It's a fine time a day when men's to be trapped and carried off, and them as lays trapped to set them free is to be put in lockups for it. But there was rioting beside the rescue, to house was burnt, continued eager, breathless Philip. And I'm known going to say I'm sorry for that neither, though maybe I wouldn't do it again. Sylvia had his hat on his head by this time, and Bell, Juan and Stiff, trembling all over, had his overcoat and his leather purse with the few coins she could muster, ready for him to put on. He looked at these preparations, at his wife and daughter, and his colour changed from its reddy brown. I'd face lockups and a fair spell of jail. But for these, he said, hesitating, Oh, said Philip, for God's sake, lose no time but be off. Where money go, asked Bell, as if Philip must decide all. Anywhere, anywhere out of this house, say Haverstone. This evening I'll go and meet him there and plan further, only be off now. Philip was so keenly eager he hardly took note at the time of Sylvia's one vivid look of unspoken thanks. Yet he remembered it afterwards. Oh, dang'em dead, said Kester, rushing to the door, for he saw what the others did not, that all chance of escape was over. The constables were already at the top of the little field path, not twenty yards off. Hide him, hide him, cried Bell, ringing her hands in terror, for she, indeed they all, knew that flight would now be impossible. Daniel was heavy, rheumatic, and moreover had been pretty severely bruised on that unlucky night. Philip, without another word, pushed Daniel before him upstairs, feeling that his own presence at Hader's Bank Farm at that hour of the day would be a betrayal. They had just time to shut themselves up in the larger bedroom, before they heard a scuffle in the constable's entry downstairs. Therian, said Philip, as Daniel squeezed himself under the bed, and then they held quite still. Philip, as much concealed by the scanty blue-check curtain as he could manage to be, they heard a confusion of voices below, a hasty moving of chairs, a banging of doors, a further parley, and then a woman's scream, shrill and pitiful, then steps on the stairs. That screech spoiled all, sighed Philip. In one instant the door was opened, and each of the hideers was conscious of the presence of the constables, although at first the latter stood motionless, surveying the apparently empty room with disappointment. Then in another moment they had rushed at Philip's legs, exposed as these were. They drew him out with violence, and then let him go. Mr. Hepburn said one in a maze, but immediately they put two and two together. We're in so small a place as Munch's Haven, everyone's relationship and connections, and even likings, were known, and the motive of Philip's coming out to Hader's Bank was perfectly clear to these men. Tether will not be far off, said the other constable. His plate were downstairs full of victual. I see'd Mr. Hepburn a walking briskly before me as I left Munch's Haven. Here he be, here he be, called out the other man, dragging Daniel out by his legs. We've getten him. Daniel kicked violently, and came out from his hiding place in a less ignominious way than by being pulled out by his heels. He shook himself, and then turned, facing his captors. I wish I'd never hidden myself. It were his doing, jerking his thumb toward Philip. I'm ready to stand by what I've done. You've getten to warrant I'll be bound. For them justice is as grand at right and when to fight's over. He was trying to carry it off with bravado. But Philip saw that he had received a shock, from his sudden look of withered color, and shrunken feature. Don't handcuff him, said Philip, putting money into the constable's hand. You'll be able to guard him well enough without them things. Daniel turned around sharp at this whisper. Letta be, letta be, my lad, he said. It'll be somewhat to think on in to lock up how two able-bodied fellies were so affear'd on to chap as rescued them honest sailors a Saturday neat, as they mon put him in guives, and he's sixty-two come Martinus, and sore laid up with her rheumatics. But it was difficult to keep up this tone of bravado, when he was led a prisoner through his own house-place, and saw his poor wife quivering and shaking all over, with her efforts to keep back all sign of emotion until he was gone. And Sylvia standing by her mother, her arm round bell's waist, and stroking the poor shrunken fingers, which worked so perpetually and nervously in futile unconscious restlessness. Kester was in a corner of the room, sullenly standing. Bell quaked from head to foot as her husband came downstairs a prisoner. She opened her lips several times with an uneasy motion, as if she would feign say something, but knew not what. Sylvia's passionate, swollen lips and her beautiful defiant eyes gave her face quite a new aspect. She looked a helpless fury. I'll make his my missus, I reckon, said Daniel, coming to a standstill as he passed near her. Oh, Daniel! Daniel cried she, opening her arms wide to receive him. Daniel! Daniel, my man! And she shook with her crying, laying her hand on his shoulder, as if he was all her stay and comfort. Calm, missus, calm, missus, said he. There couldn't be more ado if I'd been guilty of murder. And yet I'll say again, as I said afore, I'm known ashamed of my doings. Here, Sylvia lass, tack the mother off for me, for I cannot do it, Misselle. It like sets me off. His voice was quavering as he said this. But he cheered up a little and said, Now, goodbye, I would wench, kissing her. And keep a good heart, and let me see the looking lusty and strong when I come back. Goodbye, my lass. Look well after, mother, and ask Philip for guidance if it's needed. He was taken out of his home, and then arose the shrill cries of the women. But in a minute or two they were checked by the return of one of the constables, who, cap in hand, at the sight of so much grief, said, He wants a word with his daughter. The party had come to a halt about ten yards from the house. Sylvia, hastily wiping her tears on her apron, ran out and threw her arms round her father, as if to burst out afresh on his neck. Nay, nay, my wench, it's thee as one be a comfort to mother. Nay, nay, or thou'll never hear what I've got to say. Sylvia, my lass, amain and sorry I were so short with thee, lass, neat. I ask thy pardon, lass. I will cross to thee, and send thee to thy bed with sore heart. Thou mo' not thinkin' it again. But forgive me, now I'm leavin' thee. O father, father, was all Sylvia could say, and at last they had to make as though they would have used force to separate her from their prisoner. Philip took her hand, and softly led her back to her weeping mother. For some time nothing was to be heard in the little farmhouse kitchen but the sobbing and wailing of the women. Philip stood by silent, thinking as well as he could, for his keen sympathy with their grief, what had best be done next? Kester, after some growls at Sylvia for having held back the uplifted arm which he thought might have saved Daniel by a well-considered blow on his captors as they entered the house, went back to his ship and his cell for meditation and consolation, where he might hope to soothe himself before going out to his afternoon's work. Labour which his master had planned for him that very morning, with a strange foresight as Kester thought, for the job was one which would take him two or three days without needing any further directions than those he had received, and by the end of that time he thought his master would be at liberty again. So he, so they all thought in their ignorance and inexperience. Although Daniel himself was unreasoning, hasty, impulsive, in a word often thinking and acting very foolishly, yet somehow, either from some quality in his character or from the loyalty of nature in those with whom he had to deal in his everyday life, he had made his place and position clear as the arbiter and lawgiver of his household, on his decision as that of husband, father, master, perhaps superior natures, waited. So now that he was gone and had left them in such strange new circumstances so suddenly it seemed as though neither Bel nor Sylvia knew exactly what to do when their grief was spent, so much had every household action and plan been regulated by the thought of him. Meanwhile, Philip had slowly been arriving at the conclusion that he was more wanted at Munch's Haven to look after Daniel's interests, to learn what were the legal probabilities in consequence of the old man's arrest, and to arrange for his family accordingly, then standing still and silent in the Hatersnake kitchen, too full of fellow feeling and heavy foreboding to comfort, awkwardly unsympathetic in appearance from the very aching of his heart. So when his aunt, with instinctive sense of regularity and propriety, began to put away the scarcely tasted dinner and Sylvia, blinded with crying and convulsively sobbing, was yet trying to help her mother, Philip took his hat and brushing it round and round with the sleeve of his coat said, I think I'll just go back and see how matters stand. He had a more distinct plan in his head than these words implied, but it depended on so many contingencies, of which he was ignorant, that he said only these few words, and with a silent resolution to see them again that day. But a dread of being compelled to express his fears, so far beyond theirs. He went off without saying anything more. Then Sylvia lifted up her voice with a great cry. Somehow she had expected him to do something, what she did not know. But he was gone, and they were left without stay or help. Hush thee! Hush thee! said her mother, trembling all over herself. It's for the best, the Lord knows. But I never thought he'd leave us, Mo and Sylvia, half in her mother's arms, and thinking of Philip. Her mother took the words as applied to Daniel. And he'd never have left us, my winch, if he could have stayed. Oh, mother, mother, it's Philip as has left us, and he could have stayed. He'll come back, or maybe send, I'll be bound. These ways. He'll be gone to see Phaether, and he'll need comfort most on all in a fremed place in Bridewell, and never a morsel of victual or a piece of money. And now she's sat down and wept the dry hot tears that come with such difficulty to the eyes of the aged. And so, first one grieving, and then the other, and each draining her own heart of every possible hope by way of comfort, alternately trying to cheer and console, the February afternoon passed away, the continuous rain closing in the daylight even earlier than usual, and adding to the dreariness with the natural accompaniments of wailing winds, coming with long sweeps over the moors, and making the sobbing at the windows that always sound like the gasps of someone in great agony. Meanwhile Philip had hastened back to Monkshaven. He had no umbrella, he had to face the driving rain for the greater part of the way, but he was thankful to the weather, for it kept men indoors, and he wanted to meet no one, but to have time to think and mature his plans. The town itself was, so to speak, in mourning, the rescue of the sailors was a distinctly popular movement. The subsequent violence, which had indeed gone much further than has been described, after Daniel left it, was, in general, considered as only a kind of due punishment inflicted in wild justice on the press gang, and there are betters. The feeling of the Monkshaven people was, therefore, in decided opposition to the vigorous steps taken by the county magistrates, who, in consequence of an appeal from the naval officers in charge of the Impressment Service, had called out the militia from a distant and inland country, stationed within a few miles, and had thus summarily quenched the riots that were continuing on the Sunday morning, after a somewhat languid fashion, the greater part of the destruction of property having been accomplished during the previous night. Still, there was little doubt but that the violence would have been renewed as evening drew on, and the more desperate part of the population, and the enraged sailors, had had the Sabbath leisure to brood over their wrongs, and to encourage each other in a passionate attempt at redress or revenge. So the authorities were quite justified in the decided steps they had taken, both in their own estimation then and now, in hours, looking back on the affair in cold blood. But at the time, feeling ran strongly against them, and all means of expressing itself in action being prevented, men brooded solemnly in their own houses, Philip as the representative of the family, the head of which was now suffering for his deeds in the popular cause, would have met with more sympathy, eye, and more respect than he imagined, as he went along the streets, glancing from side to side, fearful of beating some who would shy him as the relation of one who had been ignominiously taken to Bridewell a few hours before. But in spite of this wincing of Phillips from observation and remark, he never dreamed of acting otherwise than as became a grave true friend. And this he did, and would have done, from a natural faithfulness and constancy of disposition. Without any special regard for Sylvia. He knew his services were needed in the shop, business which he had left at a moment's warning awaited him, unfinished, but at this time he could not bear the torture of giving explanations and alleging reasons to the languid intelligence and slow sympathies of Coulson. He went to the offices of Mr. Duncan, the oldest established and most respected attorney in Monkshaven. He who had been employed to draw up the law papers and deeds of partnership consequent on Hepburn and Coulson succeeding to the shop of John and Jeremiah Foster, brothers. Mr. Duncan knew Philip from this circumstance, but indeed nearly everyone in Monkshaven knew each other, if not enough to speak to, at least enough to be acquainted with the personal appearance and reputation of most of those whom they met in the streets. It so happened that Mr. Duncan had a favorable opinion of Philip, and perhaps for this reason the latter had a shorter time to wait before he obtained an interview with the head of the house than many of the clients who came for that purpose from town or country for many miles around. Philip was ushered in. Mr. Duncan sat with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, ready to watch his countenance and listen to his words. Good afternoon, Mr. Hepburn. Good afternoon, sir. Philip hesitated how to begin. Mr. Duncan became impatient and tapped with the fingers of his left hand on his desk. Philip's sensitive nerves felt and rightly interpreted the action. Please, sir, I'm come to speak to you about Daniel Robson of Hatersbrink Farm. Daniel Robson said Mr. Duncan, after a short pause, to try and compel Philip into speed in his story. Yes, sir, he's been taken up on account of this affair, sir, about the press-gain on Saturday night. To be sure, I thought I knew the name, and Mr. Duncan's face became graver, and the expression more concentrated. Looking up suddenly at Philip, he said, You are aware that I am the clerk to the magistrates? No, sir, in a tone that indicated the unexpressed, what then? Well, but I am. And so, of course, if you want my services or advice in favour of a prisoner whom they have committed or are going to commit, you can't have them, that's all. I am very sorry, very, said Philip, and then he was again silent for a period, long enough to make the busy attorney impatient. Well, Mr. Hepburn, have you anything else to say to me? Yes, sir, I have a deal to ask of you, for you see I don't rightly understand what to do, and yet I am all as Daniel's wife and daughter has to look to. And I have their grief heavy on my heart. You could not tell me what is to be done with Daniel, could you, sir? He'll be brought up before the magistrates tomorrow morning for final examination, along with the others, you know, before he's sent to York Castle to take his trial at the spring of sizes. To York Castle, sir? Mr. Duncan nodded, as if words were too precious to waste. And when will he go? asked poor Philip in dismay. Tomorrow, most probably as soon as the examination is over, the evidence is clear as to his being present, heeding and abetting, indicted on the fourth section of One George I Statute 1 Chapter 5. I'm afraid it's a bad lookout. Is he a friend of yours, Mr. Hepburn? Only an uncle, sir, said Philip, his heart getting full, more from Mr. Duncan's manner than from his words. But what can they do to him, sir? Do, Mr. Duncan half-smile, that the ignorance displayed, why hang him, to be sure, if the judge is in a hanging mood? He's been either a principal in the offence, or a principal in the second degree, and as such liable to the full punishment. I drew up the warrant myself this morning, though I left the exact name to be filled up by my clerk. Oh, sir, can you do nothing for me? asked Philip, with a sharp beseeching in his voice. He had never imagined that it was a capital offence, and the thought of his aunts and Sylvia's ignorance of the possible fate awaiting him whom they so much loved was like a stab to his heart. No, my good fellow, I'm sorry, but you see it's my duty to do all I can to bring criminals to justice. My uncle thought he was doing such a fine deed. Demolishing and pulling down, destroying and burning dwelling houses and outhouses, said Mr. Duncan, he must have some peculiar notions. The people is so mad with the press game, and Daniel has been at sea his self, and took it so to heart when he heard of mariners and seafaring folk being carried off, and just cheated into doing what was kind and helpful. Leased ways. What would have been kind and helpful if there had been a fire? I'm against violence and riots myself, sir, I'm sure, but I cannot help thinking as Daniel had a deer to justify him on Saturday night, sir. Well, you must try and get a good lawyer to bring out that side of the question. There's a good deal to be said on it, but it's my duty to get up all the evidence to prove that he and the others were present on the night in question. So, as you'll perceive, I can give you no help in defending him. But who can, sir? I came to you as a friend who I thought would see me through it, and I don't know any other lawyer, leased ways to speak to. Mr. Duncan was really more concerned for the misguided rioters than he was aware, and he was aware of more interest than he cared to express. So he softened his tone a little, and tried to give the best advice in his power. You'd better go to Edward Dawson on the other side of the river. He that was article clerk with me two years ago, you know. He's a clever fellow, and has not too much practice. He'll do the best he can for you. He'll have to be at the courthouse tell him tomorrow morning at ten, when the justices meet. He'll watch the case for you, and then he'll give you his opinion and tell you what to do. You can't do better than follow his advice. I must do all I can to collect evidence for a conviction, you know. Philip stood up, looked at his hat, and then came forward and laid down six and eight pence on the desk in a blushing, awkward way. Poo-poo! said Mr. Dawson, pushing the money away. Don't be a fool. You'll need it all before the trial's over. I've done nothing, man. It would be a pretty thing for me to be feed by both parties. Philip took up the money and left a room. In an instant he came back again, glanced furtively at Mr. Dawson's face, and then, once more having recourse to brushing his hat, he said in a low voice, You'll not be hard upon him, sir, I hope. I must do my duty, replied Mr. Dawson, a little sternly, without any question of hardness. Philip, discomfited, left the room. An instant of thought, and Mr. Donkin had jumped up and hastening to the door, he opened it and called after Philip. Hepburn! Hepburn, I say! He'll be taken to York as soon as may be to-morrow morning. If anyone wants to see him before then, they'd better look sharp about it. Philip went quickly along the streets toward Mr. Dawson's, pondering upon the meaning of all that he had heard and what he had better do. He had made his plans pretty clearly out by the time he arrived at Mr. Dawson's smart door, in one of the new streets on the other side of the river. A clerk as smart as the door answered Philip's hesitating knock, and replied to his inquiry as to whether Mr. Dawson was at home, in the negative, adding, after a moment's pause, He'll be at home in less than an hour. He's only gone to make Mrs. Dawson's will. Mrs. Dawson of Colletown. She's not expected to get better. Probably the clerk of an older established attorney would not have given so many particulars as to the nature of his master's employment, but as it happened, it was of no consequence. The unnecessary information made no impression on Philip's mind. He thought the matter over and then said, I'll be back in an hour then. It's gone a quarter to four. I'll be back before five, tell Mr. Dawson. He turned on his heel and went back to the high street as fast as he could, with a far more prompt and decided step than before. He hastened through the streets, emptied by the bad weather, to the principal inn of the town, the George, the sign of which was fastened to a piece of wood stretched across the narrow street, and going up to the bar with some timidity, for the inn was frequented by the gentry of Munch's Haven and the neighborhood, and was considered as a touch above such customers as Philip. He asked if he could have a tax cart made ready in a quarter of an hour and sent up to the door of his shop. To be sure he could, how far was it to go? Philip hesitated before he replied, up the knotting lane to the style leading down to Hagerstank Farm. They'll have to wait there for summers are coming. They must not wait long such an evening as this, standing in such rain and wind as there will be up there, is enough to kill a horse. They shan't wait long, said Philip decisively, in a quarter of an hour, mind. He now went back to the shop, beating against the storm, which was increasing as the tide came in and the night hours approached. Coulson had no word for him, but he looked reproachfully at his partner for his long unexplained absence. Hester was putting away the ribbons and handkerchiefs and bright coloured things, which had been used to deck the window, for no more customers were likely to come this night through the blustering weather to a shop dimly lighted by two tallow candles and an inefficient oil lamp. Philip came up to her and stood looking at her with unseeing eyes. But the strange consciousness of his fixed stare made her uncomfortable, and called the faint flush to her pale cheeks, and at length compelled her, as it were, to speak and break the spell of silence. So, curiously enough, all three spoke at once. Hester asked, without looking at Philip, You're sadly wet, I'm feared. Coulson said, Thou might have a bit of news to tell one after being on the Gadd all afternoon. Philip whispered to Hester, We'll come into te parlour. I want a word with thee by ourselves. Hester quietly finished rolling up the ribbon she had in her hands when he spoke, and then followed him into the room behind the shop, before spoken of. Philip sat down on the table the candle which he had brought out of the shop, and turning round to Hester, took her trembling hand into both of his, and gripping it nervously, said, O Hester, thou must help me, thou will, will not thou. Hester gulped down something that seemed to rise in her throat and choke her before she answered, Anything, thou knows, Philip. Yes, yes, I know, thou sees the matters this. Daniel Robson, he who married my aunt, is taken up for Yon Riot on Saturday night at Emeriner's arms. They spoke on it this afternoon. They said the warrant was out, said Hester, filling up the sentence, as Philip hesitated, lost for an instant in his own thoughts. I, the warrant is out, and he's in to lock up, and will be carried to York Castle tomorrow morning, and I'm a feared it will go bad with him, and they at Hatersbank is not prepared, and they must see him again before he goes. Now, Hester, will thou go in a tax cart, as will be here in less than ten minutes from to George, and bring them back here, and they must stay all night for to be ready to see him tomorrow before he goes. It's dreary weather for them, but they'll not mind that. He had used words as if he was making a request to Hester, but he did not seem to await her answer, so sure was he that she would go. She noticed this, and noticed also that the rain was spoken of in reference to them, not to her. A cold shadow passed over her heart, though it was nothing more than she already knew, that Sylvia was the one centre of his thoughts and his love. I'll go put on my things at once, said she, gently. Philip pressed her hand tenderly. A glow of gratitude overspread him. Thou is a real good one. God bless thee, said he. Thou must take care of thyself, too, continued he. There's raps and plenty in the house, and if there are not, there's those in the shop, as will be none the worse for once wearing at such a time as this, and wrap thee well up, and take shawls and cloaks for them, and mind as they put them on. Thou'll have to go out at his style, I'll tell to drive her where, and thou must get over to style and follow to path down two fields, and the house is right before ye, and bid them make haste and lock up the house for they must stay all night here, Kester'll look after things. All this time Hester was hastily putting on her hat and cloak, which she had fetched from the closet where they usually hung through the day. Now she stood listening, as it were, for final directions. But suppose they will not come, said she. They do not know me, and may not believe my words. They must, said he impatiently. They don't know what a waitsome he continued. I tell thee, because thou not let out, and it seems as if I'm untell some one. It were such a shock. He's to be tried for his life. They know not, it's so serious, and Hester, said he, going on in his search after sympathy. She's like as if she was bound up in her father. His lips quivered as he looked wistfully into Hester's face at these words. No need to tell her who was she. No need to put into words the fact, told plainer than words could have spoken it, that his heart was bound up in Sylvia. Hester's face, instead of responding to his look, contracted a little and, for the life of her, she could not have helped saying, Why don't you go yourself, Philip? I can't, I can't, said he impatiently. I'd give the world to go, for I might be able to comfort her, but there's lawyers to see, and ever so much to do, and they've never a man-friend but me to do it all. You'll tell her, said Philip insinuatingly, as if a fresh thought had struck him, as how I would have come. I would feign her comfort on myself, but I couldn't, because of the lawyer. Mind, you say, because of the lawyer. I'd be loath for her to think I was minding any business of my own at this time. And whatever you do, speak hopeful, and for to life for you, don't speak of the hanging. It's likely it's a mistake at Duncan's. And anyhow, there's to Cart. Anyhow, I should perhaps not have told thee, but it's a comfort to make a clean breast to a friend at times. God bless thee, Hester. I don't know what I should have done without thee, said he, as he wrapped her well up in the Cart and placed the bundles of cloaks and things by her side. Along the street in the jolting Cart, as long as Hester could see the misty light streaming out of the shop door, so long was Philip standing bare-headed in the rain looking after her. But she knew that it was not her own poor self that attracted his lingering gaze. It was the thought of the person she was bound to. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of Sylvia's Lovers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskill Chapter 26 Adreary Vigil Through the dark rain, against the cold wind, shaken over the rough stones, went Hester in the little tax cart. Her heart kept rising against her fate. The hot tears came unbidden to her eyes, but rebellious heart was soothed and hot tears were sent back to their source before the time came for her alighting. The driver turned his horse in the narrow lane and shouted after her an injunction to make haste as, with her head bent low, she struggled down to the path to Hader's Bank Farm. She saw the light in the window from the top of the brow and involuntarily she slackened her pace. She had never seen Belle Robson, and would Sylvia recollect her? If she did not, how awkward it would be to give the explanation of who she was and what her errand was and why she was sent. Nevertheless it must be done, so on she went, and standing within the little porch she knocked faintly at the door. But in the bluster of the elements the sound was lost. Again she knocked, and now the murmur of women's voices inside was hushed, and someone came directly to the door and opened it sharply. It was Sylvia. Although her face was completely in shadow, of course Hester knew her well, but she, if indeed she would have recognized Hester less disguised, did not know in the least who the woman, muffled up in a great cloak, with her hat tied down with a silk handkerchief standing in the porch at this time of night, could be. Nor, indeed, was she in a mood to care or to inquire. She said hastily, in a voice rendered hoarse and arid with grief, Go away! This is no house for strangers to come to. We've enough on our own to think on. When she hastily shut the door in Hester's face, before the latter could put together the right words in which to explain her errand, Hester stood outside in the dark, wet porch, discomfited, and wondering how next to obtain a hearing through the shut and bolted door. Not long did she stand, however. Someone was again at the door, talking in a voice of distress and remonstrance, and slowly unbarring the bolts. A tall, thin figure of an elderly woman was seen against the warm firelight inside as soon as the door was opened. A hand was put out, like that which took the dove into the ark, and Hester was drawn into the warmth and the light, while Bell's voice went on speaking to Sylvia before addressing the dripping stranger. It's not a night to turn a dog for the door, it's ill-letting our grief harden our hearts. But oh, misses, to Hester, ye men forgive us, for a great sorrow has fallen upon us this day, and we're like beside ourselves with crying and pleaning. Bell sat down and threw her apron over her poor worn face, as if decently to shield the signs of her misery from a stranger's gaze. Sylvia, all tear-swollen, and looking ascance and almost fiercely at the stranger, who had made good her intrusion, was drawn as it were to her mother's side, and kneeling down by her, put her arms round her waist, and almost lay across her lap, still gazing at Hester with cold, distrustful eyes, the expression of which repelled and daunted that poor unwilling messenger, and made her silent for a minute or so after her entrance. Bell suddenly put down her apron. You're cold and drenched, said she. Come near to the fire and warm yourself. Ye men pardon us if we do not think on everything at onst. You're very kind, very kind indeed, said Hester, touched by the poor woman's evident effort to forget her own grief in the duties of hospitality, and loving Bell from that moment. I'm Hester Rose, she continued, half addressing Sylvia, who she thought might remember the name. And Philip Hepburn has sent me in a tax cart to this style yonder, to fetch both on your back to Monkshaven. Sylvia raised her head and looked intently at Hester. Bell clasped her hands tight together and lent forwards. It's my master as once us, she said she, in an eager questioning tone. It's for to see your master, said Hester. Philip says he'll be sent to York tomorrow, and you'll be feigned to see him before he goes, and if you'll come down to Monkshaven tonight, you'll be on to spot again the time comes when to justices will let ye. Bell was up and about, making for the place where she kept her outgoing things, almost before Hester had begun to speak. She hardly understood about her husband's being sent to York, in the possession of the idea that she might go and see him. She did not understand or care how, in this wild night, she was to get to Monkshaven, all she thought of was, that she might go and see her husband. But Sylvia took in more points than her mother, and almost suspiciously began to question Hester. Why are they sending him to York? What made Philip leave us? Why didn't he come his self? He couldn't come his self. He bade me say, because he was bound to be at the lawyers at five about your father's business. I think you might have known he would have come for any business of his own. And about York, it's Philip has told me, and I never asked why. I never thought on your asking me so many questions. I thought you'd be ready to fly on any chance to see in your father. Hester spoke out the sad reproach that ran from her heart to her lips, to distrust Philip, to linger when she might hasten. Oh! said Sylvia, breaking out into a wild cry that carried with it more conviction of agony than much weeping could have done. I may be rude and hard, and I may ask strange questions as if I cared for the answers you may give me. And in my heart of hearts I care for not but to have faith back with us, as love him so dear. I can hardly tell what I say much less why I say it. Mother is so patient. It puts me past myself, for I could fight with the very walls I'm so mad with grieving. Sure they'll let him come back worse tomorrow, when they hear from his own cell why he did it. She looked eagerly at Hester for an answer to this last question, which she had put in a soft, intriguing tone, as if with Hester herself the decision rested. Hester shook her head. Sylvia came up to her and took her hands, almost fondling them. He do not think they'll be hard with him when they hear all about it don't you? Why, York castles the place they send all the thieves and robbers to not honest men like Phaether. Hester put her hand on Sylvia's shoulder with a soft caressing gesture. Philip will know, she said, using Philip's name as a kind of spell. It would have been so to her. Come away to Philip, said she again, urging Sylvia by her looks and manner to prepare for the little journey. Sylvia moved away for this purpose, saying to herself, It's going to see Phaether. He will tell me all. Poor Mrs. Robson was collecting a few clothes for her husband with an eager trembling hand, so trembling that article after article fell to the floor, and it was Hester who picked them up, and at last, after many vain attempts by the grief-shaken woman, it was Hester who tied the bundle and arranged the cloak and fastened down the hood. Sylvia, standing by, not unobservant, though apparently absorbed in her own thoughts. At length all was arranged, and the key given over to Kester, as they passed out into the storm, Sylvia said to Hester, Thou's a real good wench. Thou's fitter to be about mother than me. I'm but a cross-patch at best, and now it's like as if I was no good to nobody. Sylvia began to cry, but Hester had no time to attend to her, even had she the inclination. All her care was needed to help the hasty tottering steps of the wife who was feebly speeding up the wet and slippery brow to her husband. All Belle thought of was that he was at the end of her toil. She hardly understood when she was to see him. Her weary heart and brain had only received one idea, that each step she was now taking was leading her to him. Tired and exhausted with her quick walk uphill, battling all the way with wind and rain, she could hardly have held up another minute when they reached the tax cart in the lane, and Hester had almost to lift her onto the front seat by the driver. She covered and wrapped up the poor old woman, and afterwards placed herself in the straw at the back of the cart, packed up close by the shivering, weeping Sylvia. Neither of them spoke a word at first, but Hester's tender conscience smote her for her silence before they had reached Monkshaven. She wanted to say some kind word to Sylvia, and yet knew not how to begin. Somehow, without knowing why, or reasoning upon it, she hid upon Philip's message as the best comfort in her power to give. She had delivered it before, but it had been apparently little heated. Philip made me say it was business as kept him from fetching you himself, business with a lawyer about, about your father. What do they say, said Sylvia, suddenly lifting her bowed head, as though she would read her companion's face in the dim light. I did not know, said Hester, sadly. They were now jolting over the paved streets, and not a word could be spoken. They were now at Philip's door, which was open to receive them even before they arrived, as if someone had been watching and listening. The old servant Phoebe, the fixture in the house, who had belonged to it and to the shop for the last twenty years, came out holding a candle and sheltering it in her hand from the weather, while Philip helped the tottering steps of Mrs. Robson as she descended behind. As Hester had got in last, so she had now to be the first to move, as she was moving Sylvia's cold little hand was laid on her arm. I am maine and thankful to you. I ask your pardon for speaking cross, but indeed my heart's a most broken with fear about feather. The voice was so plaintive, so full of tears, that Hester could not but yearn towards the speaker. She bent over and kissed her cheek, and then clambered unaided down by the wheel on the dark side of the cart. Wistfully she longed for one word of thanks or recognition from Philip, in whose service she had performed this hard task, but he was otherwise occupied, and on casting a further glance back, as she turned the corner of the street, she saw Philip lifting Sylvia carefully down in his arms from her footing on the top of the wheel, and then they all went into the light and the warmth, and the door was shut, the lightened cart drove briskly away, and Hester, in rain and cold and darkness, went homewards with her tired, sad heart. Philip had done all he could, since his return from Lawyer Dawson's, to make his house bright and warm for the reception of his beloved. He had a strong apprehension of the probable fate of poor Daniel Robson. He had a warm sympathy with the miserable distress of the wife and daughter. But still at the back of his mind his spirits danced, as if this was to them a festal occasion. He had even taken unconscious pleasure in Phoebe's suspicious looks and tones, as he had hurried and superintended her in her operations. A fire blazed cheerily in the parlor, almost dazzling to the travellers brought in from the darkness and the rain. Candles burned, two candles, much to Phoebe's discontent. Poor Belle Robson had to sit down almost as soon as she entered the room, so worn out was she with fatigue and excitement, yet she grudged every moment which separated her, as she thought, from her husband. I'm ready now, said she, standing up and rather repulsing Sylvia's cares. I'm ready now, said she, looking eerily at Philip, as if for him to lead the way. It's not tonight, replied he almost apologetically. You can't see him tonight. It's to-morrow morning before he goes to York. It was better for you to be down here in town ready, and besides I didn't know when I sent for ye that he was locked up for the night. Well a day, well a day, said Belle, rocking herself backwards and forwards and trying to soothe herself with these words. Suddenly she said, but I've brought his comforter with me, his red-wollon comforter, as he's always slept in this twelve-month past. He'll get his room at his again. Oh Philip, can I not get it to him? I'll send it by Phoebe, said Philip, who was busy making tea, hospitable and awkward. Can I not take it, myself, repeated Belle? I could make sure, or anybody else. They'd maybe not mind, young woman. Phoebe, do you call her? Nay, mother, said Sylvia, thou's not fit to go. Shall I go, asked Philip, hope him she would say no, and be content with Phoebe, and leave him where he was. Oh Philip, would you, said Sylvia, turning round? I said, Belle, if thou would take it, they'd be minding you all. So there was nothing for it but for him to go, in the first flush of his delightful rites of hospitality. It's not far, said he, consoling himself, rather than them. I'll be back in ten minutes. The tea is masquered, and Phoebe will take your wet things and dry them by the kitchen fire, and here's the stairs, opening a door in the corner of the room, from which the stairs immediately ascended. There's two rooms at the top. That, to the left, is all made ready. Other is mine, said he, reddening a little as he spoke. Belle was busy undoing her bundle with trembling fingers. Here, said she, and oh lad, here's a bit of peppermint cake. He's maine and fond on it, and I catch sight on it by good luck just last minute. Philip was gone, and the excitement of Belle and Sylvia flagged once more, and sank into wondering despondency. Sylvia, however, roused herself enough to take off her mother's wet clothes, and she took them timidly into the kitchen, and arranged them before Phoebe's fire. Phoebe opened her lips once or twice to speak in remonstrance, and then, with an effort, gulped her words down, for her sympathy, like that of all the rest of the Monkshaven world, was in favour of Daniel Robson, and his daughter might place her dripping cloak this night, wherever she would, for Phoebe. Sylvia found her mother still sitting on the chair next to the door, where she had first placed herself on entering the room. "'I'll give you some tea,' mother said she, struck with the shrunken look of Belle's face. "'No, no,' said her mother. "'It's not manners for to help ourselves. "'I'm sure Philip would have wished you for to take it,' said Sylvia, pouring out a cup. Just then he returned, and something in his look, some dumb expression of delight at her occupation, made her blush and hesitate for an instant, but then she went on, and made a cup of tea ready, saying something a little incoherent all the time about her mother's need of it. After tea, Belle Robson's weariness became so extreme, that Philip and Sylvia urged her to go to bed. She resisted a little, partly out of manners, and partly because she kept fancying poor woman, that somehow or other her husband might send for her. But about seven o'clock Sylvia persuaded her to come upstairs. Sylvia, too, bade Philip good night, and his look followed the last wave of her dress as she disappeared up the stairs, then leaning his chin on his hand, he gazed at vacancy and thought deeply, for how long he knew not? So intent was his mind on the chances of futurity. He was aroused by Sylvia's coming downstairs into the sitting-room again. He started up. Mother is so shivery, said she, may I go in there, indicating the kitchen, and make her a drop of gruel? Phoebe shall make it, not you, said Philip, eagerly preventing her by going to the kitchen door and giving his orders. When he turned round again, Sylvia was standing over the fire, leaning her head against the stone mantelpiece for the comparative coolness. She did not speak at first or take any notice of him. He watched her furtively, and saw that she was crying, the tears running down her cheeks, and she too much absorbed in her thoughts to wipe them away with her apron. While he was turning over in his mind what he could best say to comfort her, his heart, like hers being almost too full for words, she suddenly looked him full in the face, saying, Philip, won't they soon let him go? What can they do to him? Her open lips trembled while awaiting his answer. The tears came up and filled her eyes. It was just the question he had most dreaded. It led to the terror that possessed his own mind, but which he had hoped to keep out of hers. He hesitated. Speak, lad, said she impatiently with a little passionate gesture. I can see thou knows. He had only made it worse by consideration. He rushed blindfold at a reply. He's tayin' up for a felony. Felony, said she. There thou are out. He's in for letting yawn men out. Thou may call it rioting, if thou's a mind to set folks against him. But it's too bad to cast such hard words at him as yawn. Felony, she repeated in a half-offended tone. It's what the lawyers call it, said Philip sadly. It's no word of mine. Lawyers as always for makin' the worst of things, said she a little pacified. But folks shouldn't always believe them. It's lawyers as has to judge in the long run. Cannot the justices Mr. Harter and them as is no lawyers give him a sentence tomorrow without sending him to York? No, said Philip, shaking his head. He went to the kitchen door and asked if the gruel were not ready. So anxious was he to stop the conversation at this point. But Phoebe, who held her young master in but little respect, scolded him for a stupid man who thought like all his sex that gruel was to be made in a minute, whatever the fire was, and bade him come and make it for himself if he was in such a hurry. He had to return discomforted to Sylvia, who meanwhile had arranged her thoughts ready to return the charge. And say he's sent to York, and say he's tried there. What's to worse they can do again him? Asked she, keeping down her agitation to look at Philip the more sharply, her eyes never slackened their penetrating gaze at his countenance until he replied with the utmost unwillingness and most apparent confusion, they may send him to Botany Bay. He knew that he held back a worse contingency, and he was mortally afraid that she would perceive this reserve. But what he did say was so much beyond her utmost apprehension, which had only reached to various terms of imprisonment that she did not imagine the dark shadow lurking behind. What he had said was too much for her. Her eyes dilated, her lips blanched, her pale cheeks grew yet paler. After a minute's look into his face as if fascinated by some horror, she stumbled backwards into the chair in the chimney corner and covered her face with her hands, moaning out some inarticulate words. Philip was on his knees by her, dumb from excessive sympathy, kissing her dress, all unfelt by her. He murmured half-words, he began passionate sentences that died away upon his lips, and she, she thought of nothing but her father, and was possessed and wrapped out of herself by the dread of losing him to that fearful country, which was almost like the grave to her. So all but impassable was the gulf. But Philip knew that it was possible that the separation impending might be that of the dark mysterious grave, that the gulf between the father and child might indeed be that which no living, breathing, warm human creature can ever cross. Sylvie, Sylvie, said he, and all their conversation had to be carried on in low tones and whispers for fear of the listening ears above. Don't, don't, without rending my heart, oh Sylvie Harkin, there's not a thing I'll not do, there's not a penny I've got, the last drop of blood that's in me, I'll give up my life for his. Life, said she, putting down her hands, and looking at him as if her looks could pierce his soul, who talks of touching his life? Thou art going crazy, Philip, I think. But she did not think so, although she would feign have believed it. In her keen agony she read his thoughts as though they were an open page. She sat there, upright and stony, the conviction creeping over her face like the gray shadow of death. No more tears, no more trembling, almost normal breathing. He could not bear to see her, and yet she held his eyes, and he feared to make the effort necessary to move or to turn away, lest the shunning motion should carry conviction to her heart. Alas, conviction of the probable danger to her father's life was already there. It was that that was calming her down, tightening her muscles, bracing her nerves. In that hour she lost all her early youth. Then he may be hung, said she, low and solemnly, after a long pause. Philip turned away his face and did not utter a word. Again deep silence, broken only by some homely sound in the kitchen. Mother must not know on it, said Sylvia, in the same tone in which she had spoken before. It's to worst as can happen to him, said Philip. More likely, he'll be transported. Maybe he'll be brought in innocent after all. No, said Sylvia heavily, as one without hope, as if she were reading some dreadful doom in the tablets of the awful future. They'll hang him. Oh, Father! Father, she choked out, almost stuffing her apron into her mouth to deaden the sound, and catching at Philip's hand, and ringing it with convulsive force, till the pain that he loved was nearly more than he could bear. No words of his could touch such agony, but irrepressibly, and as he would have done it to a wounded child, he bent over her and kissed her with a tender, trembling kiss. She did not repulse it. Probably she did not even perceive it. At that moment Phoebe came in with the gruel. Philip saw her and knew in an instant what the old woman's conclusion must needs be. But Sylvia had to be shaken by the now-standing Philip, before she could be brought back to the least consciousness of the present time. She lifted up her white face to understand his words, then she rose up like one who slowly comes to the use of her limbs. I suppose I'm on go, she said, but I'd sooner face the dead. If she asked me, Philip, what when I say? She'll not ask, you said he, if you go about as Carmen. She's never asked you all this time, and if she does, put her on to me. I'll keep it from her as long as I can. I'll manage better, nor I've done with thee, Sylvia. Said he with a sad faint smile, looking with fond penitence at her altered countenance. Thou mustn't blame thyself, said Sylvia, seeing his regret. I brought it on me, Macel. I thought I would hat a truth, whatever came in it. Now I'm not strong enough to stand it, God help me. She continued piteously. Oh Sylvia, let me help you. I cannot do what God can. I'm not meaning that. But I can do next to him of any man. I have loved you for years and years. In a way it's terrible to think on, if my love can do not now to comfort you in your sore distress. Cousin Philip, she replied, in the same measured tone in which she had always spoken, since she had learnt the extent of her father's danger, and the slow stillness of her words was in harmony with the stony look of her face. Thou was a comfort to me. I couldn't bide my life without thee. But I cannot take in the thought I love. It seems beside me quite. I can think on not but them as is quick, and them that is dead. This furniture was old, and had belonged to the brothers' foster, and they had let Philip have it at a very reasonable rate. But still the purchase of it had diminished the amount of his savings. But on the sum which he possessed he drew largely. He drew all. Nay, he overdrew his accounts somewhat, to his former master's dismay. Although the kindness of their hearts overruled the hard arguments of their heads. All was wanted, to defend Daniel Robson at the approaching York assizes. His wife had handed over to Philip all the money or money's worth she could lay her hands upon. Daniel himself was not one to be much beforehand with the world, but to Bell's thrifty imagination the round, golden guineas tied up in the old stocking-foot against rent-day seemed a mint of money on which Philip might draw infinitely. As yet, she did not comprehend the extent of her husband's danger. Sylvia went about like one in a dream, keeping back the hot tears that might interfere with the course of life she had prescribed for herself in that terrible hour when she first learnt all. Every penny of money either she or her mother could save went to Philip. Kester's horde, too, was placed in Hepburn's hands at Sylvia's earnest entreaty, for Kester had no great opinion of Philip's judgment, and would rather have taken his money straight himself to Mr. Dawson and begged him to use it for his master's behoof. Indeed, if anything, the noiseless breach between Kester and Philip had widened of late. It was seed-time, and Philip, in his great anxiety for every possible interest that might affect Sylvia, and also was some distraction from his extreme anxiety about her father, had taken to study agriculture of an evening in some old books which he had borrowed, The Farmer's Complete Guide, and such like, and from time to time he came down upon the practical dogged Kester with directions gathered from the theories in his books. Of course the two fell out, but without many words. Kester persevered in his old ways, making light of Philip and his books in manner and action, till at length Philip withdrew from the contest. Many a man may lead a horse to water, but there's few can make him drink, and Philip certainly was not one of those few. Kester, indeed, looked upon him with jealous eyes on many accounts. He had favoured Charlie Kinraid as a lover of Sylvia's, and though he had no idea of the truth, though he believed in the drowning of the Spectioneer as much as any one, yet the year which had elapsed since Kinraid's supposed death was but a very short while to the middle-aged man who forgot how slowly time passes with the young, and he could often have scolded Sylvia if the poor girl had been a bit less heavy at heart than she was for letting Philip come so much about her, come though it was on her father's business. For the darkness of their common dread drew them together, occasionally to the comparative exclusion of Belle and Kester, which the latter perceived and resented. Kester even allowed himself to go so far as to wonder what Philip could want with all the money, which to him seemed unaccountable, and once or twice the ugly thought crossed his mind that shops conducted by young men were often not so profitable as when guided by older heads, and that some of the coin poured into Philip's keeping might have another destination than the defence of his master. Poor Philip, and he was spending all his own and more than all his own money, and no one ever knew it as he had bound down his friendly bankers to secrecy. Once only Kester ventured to speak to Sylvia on the subject of Philip. She had followed her cousin to the field just in front of their house, just outside the porch, to ask him some questions she did not put in her mother's presence. Belle, indeed, in her anxiety, usually absorbed all the questions when Philip came, and stood, after Philip had bid her good-bye, hardly thinking about him at all, but looking unconsciously after him as he ascended the brow, and at the top he had turned to take a last glance at the place his love inhabited, and, seeing her, he had waved his hat and gratified for well. She, meanwhile, was roused from far other thoughts than of him, and of his now acknowledged love, by the motion against the sky, and was turning back into the house, when she heard Kester's low horse call, and saw him standing at the ship and door. "'Come here, the wench,' said he indignantly. "'Is this a time for courting?' "'Courting,' said she, drawing up her head, and looking back at him with proud defiance. "'Aye, courting, what other mackerel thing is, when thou's gazing after your meddlesome chap, as if thou'dst send thy eyes after him, and he making thou looks back at thee?' "'It's what we call courting in my young days, anyhow, and it's not a time for a wench to go courting when a faith is a prison,' said he, with a consciousness as he uttered these last words, that he was cruel and unjust and going too far, yet carried on to say them by his hot jealousy against Philip. Sylvia continued looking at him without speaking. She was too much offended for expression. "'Thou may glower, and thou may look less,' said he, but had thought better on thee. So that last week the last sweet hour drowned, but thou's not one to waste time in remembering them as is gone, if indeed, though ever cared a button for yon kin raid, if it wasn't a make-believe.' Her lips were contracted and drawn up, showing her small glittering teeth, which were scarcely a part as she breathed out. "'Thou think so, does thou, that I've forgotten him? Thou better have a care of thy tongue.' Then, as if fearful that her self-command might give way, she turned into the house, and going through the kitchen like a blind person, she went up to her now unused chamber, and threw herself face downwards, flat on her bed, almost smothering herself. Ever since Daniel's committal, the decay that had imperceptibly begun in his wife's bodily and mental strength during her illness of the previous winter had been making quicker progress. She lost her reticence of speech, and often talked to herself. She had not so much forethought as of old. Slight differences it is true, but which, with some others of the same description, gave foundation for the homely expression which some now applied to bell. She'll never be same woman again.' This afternoon she had cried herself to sleep in her chair after Philip's departure. She had not heard Sylvia's sweeping passage to the kitchen, but half an hour afterwards she was startled up by Kester's abrupt entry. "'Where's Sylvie?' asked he. "'I don't know,' said Belle, looking scared, and as if she was ready to cry. "'It's no news about him,' said she, standing up and supporting herself on the stick she was now accustomed to use. "'Bless you, no. Do not be afraid, Mrs. It's only as I spoke asked it at wench, and I want to tell her as I'm sorry,' said Kester, advancing into the kitchen and looking round for Sylvia. "'Sylvie, Sylvie!' shouted he. She mourned being out. Sylvia came slowly down the stairs and stood before him. Her face was pale, her mouth sep'd and determined. The light of her eyes veiled in gloom. Kester shrank from her look and even more from her silence. "'I'm come to ask pardon,' said he after a little pause. She was still silent. "'I'm known above axing pardon, but I'm fiftieth more, and these but a silly wench as I've nursed him in arms. I'll say before thy mother as I'll never to use them words, and as I'll am sorry for it. I don't understand it at all,' said Belle in a hurried and perplexed tone. "'What's Kester been saying me loss?' she added, turning to Sylvia. Sylvia went to step or two nearer to her mother, and took hold of her hand as if to quieten her. Then, facing once more round, she said deliberately to Kester, "'If thou want Kester, I'd never forgive thee. Never,' she added with bitterness as the words he had used recurred to her mind. "'It's in me to hate thee now for saying what thou did. But thou, dear old Kester, after all, I can't help myself, and one needs forgive thee.' And she went towards him. He took her little head between his horny hands and kissed it. She looked up with tears in her eyes, saying softly, "'Never say things like them again. Never speak on. I'll bark my tongue off first,' he interrupted. He kept his word. In all Philip's comings and goings to and from Hatersbank Farm at this time, he never spoke again of his love. In look, words, manner, he was like a thoughtful, tender brother. Nothing more. He could be nothing more in the presence of the great dread, which loomed larger upon him after every conversation with the lawyer. For Mr. Donkin had been right in his pronostication. Government took up the attack on the rendezvous with a high and heavy hand. It was necessary to assert authority, which had been of late too often braved. An example must be made, to strike dismay into those who opposed and defied the prescan, and all the minor authorities who held their powers from government were in a similar manner severe and relentless in the execution of their duty. So the attorney, who went over to see the prisoner in York Castle, told Philip. He added that Daniel still retained his pride in his achievement and could not be brought to understand the dangerous position in which he was placed. That, when pressed in question as to circumstances that might possibly be used in his defence, he always wandered off to accounts of previous outrages committed by the prescan, or to passionate abuse of the trick by which men had been lured from their homes on the night in question to assist in putting out an imaginary fire, and then seized and carried off. Some of this very natural indignation might possibly have some effect on the jury, and this seemed the only ground of hope, and was indeed a slight one, as the judge was likely to warn the jury against allowing their natural sympathy in such a case to divert their minds from the real question. Such was the substance of what Philip heard and heard repeatedly during his many visits to Mr Dawson, and now the time of trial drew near, for the York Assises opened on March the 12th, not much above three weeks since the offence was committed, which took Daniel from his home and placed him in peril of death. Philip was glad that, the extremity of his danger neving having been hinted to Bell, and travelling some forty miles being a most unusual exertion at that time to persons of her class, the idea of going to see her husband at York had never suggested itself to Bell's mind. Her increasing feebleness made this seem a step only to be taken in case of the fatal extreme necessity. Such was the conclusion that both Sylvia and he had come to, and it was the knowledge of this that made Sylvia strangle her own daily longing to see her father. Not but that her hopes were stronger than her fears. Philip never told her the causes for despondency. She was young, and she, like her father, could not understand how fearful sometimes is the necessity for prompt and severe punishment of rebellion against authority. Philip was to be in York during the time of the Assises, and it was understood almost without words that if the terrible worst occurred, the wife and daughter were to come to York as soon as might be. For this end Philip sanately made all the necessary arrangements before leaving Munch's haven. The sympathy of all men was with him. It was too large an occasion for Coulson to be anything but magnanimous. He urged Philip to take all the time requisite to leave all business cares to him, and, as Philip went about pale and sad, there was another cheek that grew paler still, another eye that filled with quiet tears as his heaviness of heart became more and more apparent. The day for opening the Assises came on. Philip was in York Minster, watching the solemn antique procession in which the highest authority in the county accompanies the judges to the house of the Lord, to be there admonished as to the nature of their duties. As Philip listened to the sermon with a strained and beating heart, his hopes rose higher than his fears for the first time, and that evening he wrote his first letter to Sylvia. Dear Sylvia! It will be longer first than I thought for. Mr. Dawson says Tuesday in next week, but keep up your heart. I have been hearing the sermon today which is preached to the judges, and the clergyman said so much in it about mercy and forgiveness. I think they cannot fail to be lenient this Assise. I have seen Uncle, who looks but thin, but is in good heart. Only he will keep saying he would do it over again if he had the chance, which neither Mr. Dawson nor I thinks is wise in him, in a special, as the jailer is by in his every word as is said. He was very faint of hearing all about home, and wants you to rear Daisy's calf, as he thinks you will prove a good one. He bade me give his best love to you and my aunt, and his kind duty to kester. Sylvia, will you try and forget how I used to scold you about your writing and spelling, and just write me two or three lines? I think I would rather have them badly spelt than not, because then I shall be sure they are yours. And never mind about capitals. I was a fool to say such a deal about them, for a man does just as well without them. A letter from you would do a vast to keep me patient all these days till Tuesday. Direct Mr. Philip Hepburn, care of Mr. Fraser, Draper, Mickelgate, York. My affectionate duty to my aunt, your respectful cousin and servant, Philip Hepburn. P.S. The sermon was grand. The text was Echariah, chapter seven, verse nine. Execute true judgment and show mercy. God granted may have put mercy into the judge's heart as is to try my uncle. Heavily the days passed over. On Sunday Belle and Sylvia went to church with a strange, half superstitious feeling, as if they could propitiate the most high to order the events in their favour, by paying him the compliment of attending to duties in their time of sorrow, which they had too often neglected in their prosperous days. But he, who knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust, took pity upon his children, and sent some of his blessed peace into their hearts, else they could scarce have endured the agony of suspense of those next hours. For as they came slowly and wearily home from church, Sylvia could no longer bear her secret, but told her mother of the peril in which Daniel stood. Cold as the March wind blew, they had not felt it, and had sat down on a hedge bank for Belle to rest. And then Sylvia spoke, trembling and sick for fear, yet utterly unable to keep silence any longer. Belle heaved up her hands, and let them fall down on her knees before she replied. The Lord is above us, said she solemnly. He has sent a fear of this into my heart of forno. I never breathed it to the Himalas, and I never spoken it to the Immortal, because Sylvia choked with crying, and laid her head on her mother's lap, feeling that she was no longer the strong one, and the protector, but the protected. Belle went on stroking her head. The Lord is like a tender nurse, as winds a child to look on, and to like what it loathed once. He has sent me dreams as prepared me for this, if so be it comes to pass. Philip is hopeful, said Sylvia, raising her head and looking through her tears at her mother. Aye, it is. And I cannot tell, but I think it's not for naught, as the Lord has taken away all fear of death out on my heart. I think he means as Daniel and me is to go hand in hand through the valley, like as we walked up to our wedding in Crossway Church. I can never guide house without Daniel, and I shall be fear to take a deal more, nor is good for him without me. But me, Mother, I was forgetting me, moaned out Sylvia. Oh, Mother, Mother, think on me. Nay, my lass, I'm not forgetting you. Had I soar out, I lost winter of thinking on thee, when that chapkin raid were hanging about thee. I'll learn sweet will I'm dead, but I won't uneasy like. But sin Philip and thee seem to have made it up. Sylvia shivered and opened her mouth to speak, but did not say a word. And sin the Lord being comforting me, and talking to me many a time when thou thought thou were asleep. Things seem to red the selves up. And if Daniel goes, I'm ready to follow. I could never stand living to hear folks say to be known. He seems so unnatural and shameful. But, Mother, he won't, he shan't be young, said Sylvia, springing to her feet. Philip says he won't. Belle shook her head. They walked on, Sylvia both disheartened and almost irritated at her mother's despondency. But before they went to bed at night, Belle said things which seemed as though the morning's feelings had been but temporary, and as if she was referring every decision to the period of her husband's return. When father comes home, seemed a sort of burden at the beginning or end of every sentence, and this reliance on his certain coming back to them was almost as great a trial to Sylvia as the absence of all hope had been in the morning. But that instinct told her that her mother was becoming incapable of argument. She would have asked her why her views were so essentially changed in so few hours. This inability of reason in poor Belle made Sylvia feel very desolate. Monday passed over, how neither of them knew, for neither spoke of what was filling the thoughts of both. Before it was light on Tuesday morning, Belle was a stir. It's very early, Mother, said weary sleepy Sylvia, dreading returning consciousness. I'll ask, said Belle in a brisk cheerful tone, but he'll maybe, beyond tonight, has bound to have all things ready for him. Anyhow, said Sylvia sitting up in bed, he couldn't come home tonight. Toplas, I don't know how quick a man comes home to wife and child. I'll be ready any minute. She hurried about in a way which Sylvia wondered to see. Till at length she fancied that perhaps her mother did so to drive away thought. Every place was cleaned, and there was scarce time allowed for breakfast. Till at last, long before midday, all the work was done, and the two sat down to their spinning wheels. Sylvia's spirits sank lower and lower at each speech of her mother's, from whose mind all fear seemed to have disappeared, leaving only a strange, restless kind of excitement. It's time for potatoes, said Belle, after her wool had snapped many a time from her uneven tread. Mother, said Sylvia, has but just gone ten. Put him on, said Belle, without attending to the full meaning of her daughter's words. It'll maybe, isn't day on if we get dinner done but times. But guess there isn't far-acre field, and he'll not be on till noon. This seemed to settle matters for a while, but then Belle pushed her wheel away and began searching for her hood and cloak. Sylvia found them for her, and then asked, sadly, what does Swanton for mother? I'll go up to Brown Throopfield, and just have a look down the lane. I'll go with thee, said Sylvia, feeling all the time the uselessness of any looking for intelligence from York so early in the day. Very patiently did she wait by her mother's side during the long half-hour which Belle spent gazing down the road for those who never came. When they got home Sylvia put the potatoes on to boil, but when dinner was ready and the three were seated at the dresser, Belle pushed her plate away from her, saying it was so long after dinnertime that she was past eating. Kester would have said something about its being only half past twelve, but Sylvia gave him a look beseeching silence, and he went home with his dinner without a word, only brushing away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand from time to time. Belle no one gone far from home to rest at day, said he in a whisper to Sylvia as he went out. Will this day never come to an end? cried Belle plaintively. Oh, mother, it'll come to an end sometime, never fear! I've heard say, be the day weary or be the day long, at length it ringeth to even song. To even song, to even song, repeated Belle. She'd think now that even song means death, Sylvia. I cannot tell, I cannot bear it, mother, said Sylvia in despair. I'll make some clapp bread. That's an heavy job, and we're a wild way to afternoon. I do, replied the mother. He'll like it fresh, he'll like it fresh. Mermoring and talking to herself she fell into a dose from which Sylvia was careful not to disturb her. The days were now getting long, although as cold as ever, and at Hatersbank Farm the light lingered as there was no near horizon to bring on early darkness. Sylvia had all ready for her mother's tea against she awakened, but she slept on and on, the peaceful sleep of a child, and Sylvia did not care to awaken her. Just after the sun had set she saw Kester outside the window making signs to her to come out. She stole out on tiptoe by the back kitchen, the door of which was standing open. She almost ran against Philip who did not perceive her, as he was awaiting her coming the other way round the corner of the house, and who turned upon her face whose import she read in an instant. Philip was all she said, and then she fainted at his feet, coming down with a heavy bang on the round paving stones of the yard. Kester, Kester! he cried, for she looked like one dead, and with all his strength the worried man could not lift her and carry her into the house. With Kester's help she was born into the back kitchen, and Kester rushed to the pond for some cold water to throw over her, while Philip kneeling at her head was partly supporting her in his arms, and heedless of any sight or sound the shadow of someone fell upon him. He looked up and saw his aunt, the old dignified, sensible expression on her face, exactly like her former self, composed, strong, and calm. My lass, said she, sitting down by Philip, and gently taking her out of his arms into her own. Lass, bear up! When unbear up, and be a gay on her way to him, you'll be needing us now. Bear up, my lass! The Lord will give us strength. When one go to him, aye, times precious, that one cry they cry it after. Sylvia opened her dim eyes, and heard her mother's voice. The ideas came slowly into her mind, and slowly she rose up, standing still, like one who has been stunned, to regain her strength. And then, taking hold of her mother's arm, she said in a soft, strange voice, Let's go. I'm ready. End of Chapter 27