 CHAPTER 32 Meanwhile Hester came and went as usual, in so quiet and methodical a way, with so even and undisturbed a temper, that she was almost forgotten when everything went well in the shop or household. She was a star, the brightness of which was only recognized in times of darkness. She herself was almost surprised at her own increasing regard for Sylvia. She had not thought she should ever be able to love the woman, who had been such a laggard in acknowledging Philip's merits. And from all she had ever heard of Sylvia before she came to know her, from the angry words with which Sylvia had received her when she had first gone to Hader's Bank Farm, Hester had intended to remain on friendly terms but to avoid intimacy. But her kindness to Belle Robson had won both the mother's and daughter's hearts, and in spite of herself, certainly against her own mother's advice, she had become the familiar friend and welcome guest of the household. Now the very change in Sylvia's whole manner and ways which grieved in Vex Philip made his wife the more attractive to Hester. Brought up among Quakers, although not one herself, she admired and respected the stadeness and outward peacefulness common among the young women of that sect. Sylvia, whom she had expected to find volatile, talkative, vain and willful, was quiet and still, as if she had been born a friend. She seemed to have no will of her own. She served her mother and child for love. She obeyed her husband in all things and never appeared to pine after gaiety or pleasure. And yet at times Hester thought, or rather a flash came across her mind, as if all things were not as right as they seemed. Philip looked older, more careworn. Nay, even Hester was obliged to allow to herself that she had heard him speak to his wife in sharp, aggrieved tones. Innocent Hester, she could not understand how the very qualities she so admired in Sylvia were just what were so foreign to her nature that the husband, who had known her from a child, felt what an unnatural restraint she was putting upon herself, and would have hailed petulant words or willful actions with an unspeakable thankfulness for relief. One day it was in the spring of 1798. Hester was engaged to stay to tea with the Hepburns. In order that after that early meal she might set to again in helping Philip and Coulson to pack away the winter cloths and flannels for which there was no longer any use. The tea time was half past four. About four o'clock a heavy April shower came on, the hail pattering against the windowpains, so as to awaken Mrs. Robson from her afternoon's nap. She came down the corkscrew stairs and found Phoebe in the parlour arranging the tea things. Phoebe and Mrs. Robson were better friends than Phoebe and her young mistress, and so they began to talk a little together in a comfortable, familiar way. Once or twice Philip looked in, as if he would be glad to see the tea-table in readiness, and then Phoebe would put on a spurt of busy bustle which ceased almost as soon as his back was turned, so eager was she to obtain Mrs. Robson's sympathy in some little dispute that had occurred between her and the nursemaid. The latter had misappropriated some hot water, prepared and required by Phoebe to the washing of the baby's clothes. It was a long story and would have tired the patience of anyone in full possession of their senses. But the details were just within poor Bell's comprehension, and she was listening with the greatest sympathy. Both the women were unaware of the lapse of time, but it was of consequence to Philip, as the extra labour was not to be begun until after tea, and the daylight hours were precious. At quarter to five Hester and he came in, and then Phoebe began to hurry. Hester went up to sit by Bell and talk to her. Philip spoke to Phoebe in the familiar words of country folk. Indeed, until his marriage, Phoebe had always called him by his Christian name, and had found it very difficult to change it to master. Where's Sylvie, said he. Going out with Tobabi, replied Phoebe. I can't not see carry it out, asked Philip. It was touching on the old grievance. He was tired and he spoke with sharp annoyance. Phoebe might easily have told him the real state of the case. Nancy was busy at her washing, which would have been reason enough. But the nursemaid had vexed her, and she did not like Philip's sharpness. So she only said, It's none of my business. It's you to look after your own wife and child. But you're but a lad after all. This was not a conciliatory speech. And just put the last stroke to Philip's fit of ill temper. I'm not for my tea tonight, said he, to Hester when I was ready. Sylvie's not here, and nothing is nice, or as it should be. I'll go and set two on to stop taking. Don't you hurry, Hester. Stop and chat a bit with the old lady. Nay, Philip said Hester. Thou was sadly tired. Just take this cup of tea. Sylvie will be grieved if you haven't something. Sylvie doesn't care whether I'm full of fasting, replied he, impatiently putting aside the cup. If she did, she did taking care to be in, and has seen to things being as I like them. Now in general Philip was the least particular of men about meals. And to do Sylvie a justice, she was scrupulously attentive to every household duty in which old Phoebe would allow her to meddle, and always careful to see after her husband's comforts. But Philip was too vexed at her absence to perceive the injustice of what he was saying. Nor was he aware how Bell Robson had been attending to what he said. But she was sadly discompeted by it, understanding just enough of the grievance in hand, to think that her daughter was neglectful of those duties which she herself had always regarded as paramount to all others. Nor could Hester convince her that Philip had not meant what he said. Neither could she turn the poor old woman's thoughts from the words which had caused her distress. Presently Sylvie came in, bright and cheerful, although breathless with hurry. Oh, said she, taking off her wet shawl, we've had to shelter from such a storm of rain, baby, in me, but see, she's none the worse for it, as Bonnie has ever blessed her. Hester began some speech of admiration for the child. In order to prevent Bell from delivering the lecture, she felt sure was coming down on the unsuspecting Sylvie, but all in vain. Philip's been complaining on these Sylvie, said Bell, in the way in which she had spoken to her daughter when she was a little child, grave and severe and tone and look more than in words. I forget justly what about, but he spoke online neglecting him continual. It's not right, my lass, it's not right. A woman should, but my head's very tired. And all I can think on to say is, it's not right. Philip been complaining of me and to mother, said Sylvie, ready to burst into tears, so grieved and angry with she. No, said Hester, my mother has taken it a little too strong. He were vexed like at his tea, not being ready. Sylvie said no more. But the bright color faded from her cheek, and the contraction of care returned to her brow. She occupied herself with taking off her baby's walking things. Hester lingered anxious to soothe and make peace. She was looking sorrowfully at Sylvie, when she saw tears dropping on the baby's cloak. And then it seemed as if she must speak a word of comfort before going to the shop work, where she knew she was expected by both Philip and Coulson. She poured out a cup of tea and were coming close up to Sylvie and kneeling down by her. She whispered, just take him this into to where room. It'll put all to rights if thou take it to him with thy own hands. Sylvie looked up and Hester then more fully saw how she had been crying. She whispered in reply for fear of disturbing her mother. I don't mind anything but his speaking ill on me to mother. I know I'm forever trying and trying to be a good wife to him. And it's very dull work harder than you think on Hester. And I would have been home for tea tonight, only I was a feud of baby getting wet with a storm and a hail as we had down on the shore, and we sheltered under a rock. It's a weary coming home to this dark place and to find my own mother set against me. Take him his tea like a good lassie. I'll answer for it, he'll be all right. A man takes it hardly when he comes in tired of thinking his wife will be there to cheer him up a bit, to find her off, and never know not of to reason why. I'm glad enough I've gotten a baby, said Sylvia, but for all else I wish I'd never been married. I do. Hush thee lass, said Hester, rising up indignant. Now that is a sin. Ah, if that only knew the lot of some folk. But let's talk no more on that. That cannot be helped. Go, take him his tea, for it's a sad thing to think on him fasting all this time. Hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her change of position, and the word fasting caught Mrs. Robson's ear as she sat at her knitting by the chimney corner. Fasting? He said thou didn't care if he were full or fasting, lassie. It's not right in thee, I say. Go, take him his tea at once. Sylvia rose and gave up the baby, which she had been suckling, to Nancy, who, having done her washing, had come in for her charge to put it to bed. Sylvia kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad, passionate tenderness as she did so. Then she took the cup of tea, but she said rather defiantly to Hester, I'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it'll ease her mind. Then louder to her mother, she added, Mother, I'll take him this tea, though I couldn't help the being out. If the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she was going to do it was the reverse. Hester followed her slowly into the were-room, with intentional delay, thinking that her presence might be an obstacle to their mutually understanding one another. Sylvia held the cup and plate of bread and butter out to Philip, but avoided meeting his eye, and said not a word of explanation or regret or self-justification. If she had spoken, though ever so crossly, Philip would have been believed, and would have preferred it to her silence. He wanted to provoke her to speech, or did not know how to begin. That was ben out again, wandering on that sea shore, said he. She did not answer him. I cannot think what's always taking thee there, when one would have thought a walking up to Hester would be far more sheltered, both for thee and baby in such weather as this. Thou'll be having that baby ill some of these days. At this she looked up at him, and her lips moved as though she were going to say something. Oh, how he wished she would, that they might come to a wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again and a tender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence for all his hasty words, or unreasonable vexation. But she had come resolved not to speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much emotion, only as she was going away, she turned and said, Philip, mother hasn't many more years to live, did not grieve her, and set her again me by finding fault with me aforeher. Our being wed were a great mistake, but before to poor old widow woman, let us make as if we were happy. Sylvie, Sylvie, he called after her. She must have heard, but she did not turn. He went after her, and seized her by the arm rather roughly. She had stung him to the heart with her calm words, which seemed to reveal a long-formed conviction. Sylvie said he almost fiercely. What do you mean by what you've said? Speak, I will have an answer. He almost shook her. She was half frightened by his vehemence of behavior, which she took for pure anger, while it was the outburst of agonized and unrequited love. Let me go! Oh, Philip, you hurt me! Just at this moment, Hester came up. Philip was ashamed of his passionate ways in her serene presence, and loosened his grasp of his wife, and she ran away, ran into her mother's empty room, as to a solitary place, and there burst into that sobbing miserable crying, which we instinctively know is too surely lessening the length of our days on earth to be indulged in often. When she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak and quiet for a time, she listened, in dreading expectation of the sound of his footstep coming in search of her to make friends. But he was detained below on business, and never came. Instead her mother came clambering up the stairs. She was now in the habit of going to bed between seven and eight, and tonight she was retiring at even an earlier hour. Sylvia sprang up and drew down the window blind, and made her face and manner as composed as possible, in order to soothe and comfort her mother's last waking hours. She helped her to bed with gentle patience. The restraint imposed upon her by her tender filial love was good for her, though all the time she was longing to be alone to have another wild outburst. When her mother was going off to sleep, Sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. Then she gazed out at the evening sky, high above the tiled roofs of the opposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peaceful heavens took possession of her once more. It's my only comfort, said she to herself, and there's no earthly harm in it. I would have been home to his tea if I could, but when he doesn't want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby is either in my arms or asleep. While I go and cry my fill out under young great quiet sky, I cannot stay into house to be choked up with my tears, nor yet to have him coming about me either for scolding or peacemaking. So she put on her things and went out again, this time along the high street, and up the long flights of steps toward the parish church. And there she stood and thought that he or she had first met King Raid at Darley's burying. And she tried to recall the very look of all the sad earnest faces around the open grave, the whole scene, in fact, and let herself give way to the miserable regrets she had so often tried to control. Then she walked on crying bitterly, almost unawares to herself, on through the high bleak fields at the summit of the cliffs, fields bounded by loose stone fences, and far from all side of the habitation of man. But below the sea rose and raged, it was high water at the highest tide, and the wind blew gustily from the land, mainly combating the great waves that came invincibly up with a roar and an impotent furious dash against the base of the cliffs below. Sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and rebound of many waters, like the shock of mighty guns, whenever the other sound of the blustering gusty wind was lulled for an instant. She was more quieted by this tempest of the elements than she would have been had all nature seemed as still as she had imagined it to be while she was yet indoors, and only saw a part of the serene sky. She fixed on a certain point in her own mind, which she would reach and then turn back again. It was where the outline of the land curved inwards, dipping into a little bay. Here the field path she had hitherto followed descended somewhat abruptly to a cluster of fisherman's cottages, hardly large enough to be called a village, and then the narrow roadway wound up the rising ground till it again reached the summit of the cliffs that stretched along the coast for many and many a mile. Sylvia said to herself that she would term homewards when she came within sight of this cove, headlington cove as they called it. All the way along she had met no one since she had left the town, but just as she had got over this last style or ladder of stepping stones into the field from which the path descended, she came upon a number of people, quite a crowd in fact, men moving forward in a steady line hauling at a rope, a chain or something of that kind, boys, children and women holding babies in their arms as if all were feigned to come out and partake in some general interest. They kept within a certain distance from the edge of the cliff, and Sylvia, advancing a little, now saw the reason why. The great cable the men held was attached to some part of a smack which could now be seen by her in the waters below, half dismantled and all but a wreck, yet with her deck covered with living men, as far as the waning light would allow her to see. The vessel strained to get free of the strong guiding cable, the tide was turning, the wind was blowing offshore, and Sylvia knew without being told that almost parallel to this was a line of sunken rocks that had been fatal to many a ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner channel instead of keeping out to sea for miles, and then steering in straight for Monkshaven Port, and the ships that had been thus lost had been in good plight and order compared to this vessel, which seemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail. By this time the crowd, the fishermen from the hamlet down below with their wives and children, all had come at the bedridden, had reached the place where Sylvia stood. The women, in a state of wild excitement, rushed on, encouraging their husbands and sons by words, even while they hindered them by actions, and from time to time one of them would run to the edge of the cliff and shout out some brave words of hope in her shrill voice to the crew on the deck below. Whether these latter heard it or not no one could tell, but it seemed as if all human voice must be lost in the tempestuous stun and tumult of wind and wave. It was generally a woman with a child in her arms who so employed herself. As the strain upon the cable became greater and the ground on which they strove more uneven, every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women who were unencumbered held by the dear rope on which so many lives were depending. On they came a long line of human beings, black against the ruddy sunset sky. As they came near Sylvia, a woman cried out, Do not stand idle last but hold on wills. There's many a bonny life at stake, and many a mother's heart to hang in on this bitter hemp. Take out lass and give a firm grip, and God remember thee in thy need. Sylvia needed no second word. A place was made for her, and in an instant more the rope was pulling against her hands till it seemed as though she were holding fire in her bare palms. Never a one of them thought of letting go for an instant, though when all was over many of their hands were raw and bleeding. Some strong experienced fishermen passed a word along the line from time to time, giving directions as to how it should be held according to varying occasions. But few among the rest had breath or strength enough to speak. The women and children that accompanied them ran on before, breaking down the loose stone fences so as to obviate delay or hindrance. They talked continually, exhorting, encouraging, explaining. From their many words and fragmentary sentences, Sylvia learned that the vessel was supposed to be a new castle smack sailing from London that had taken the dangerous inner channel to save time and had been caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to withstand, and that if by some daring contrivance of the fishermen who had first seen her, the cable had not been got ashore, she would have been cast upon the rocks before this, and all on board perished. It were daily, then, quote one woman, I could see their faces they were so near, they were as pale as dead men, and one was praying down on his knees. There was a king's officer aboard, for I sought to gout about him. He'd maybe come from these homeward parts, and be coming to see his own folk. Else it's no common for king's officers to sail and ought but king's ships. Eh, but it's getting dark. See, there's two leaps in the house at a new town. To grass is crisp and would have right frost under our feet. It'll be a hard tug round to point, and then she'll be getting into still waters. One more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was passed. The vessel, or what remained of her, was in the harbour, among the lights and cheerful sounds of safety. The fishermen sprang down the cliff to the quayside, anxious to see the men whose lives they had saved. The women, weary and overexcited, began to cry. Not Sylvia, however. Her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day. Her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing, that they were saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before. She would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands with them all round. But instead she must go home, and well would it be with her if she was in time for her husband's supper, and escaped any notice of her absence. So she separated herself from the groups of women who sat on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the return of such of their husbands, as could resist the fascinations of the monks' haven public houses. As Sylvia went down the church steps, she came upon one of the fishermen, who had helped to tow the vessel into port. There were seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy lieutenant as had come as passenger. It wore a good job as we could manage her. Good need to thee, thou sleepaltest sonder for heaven lent a hand. The street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere of the heights above. The decent shops and houses had all their shutters put up, and were preparing for their early bedtime. Already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, and Sylvia scarcely met any one. She went round up the passage from the quayside, and in by the private door. All was still, the basins of bread and milk that she and her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in the fender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. Nancy had gone to bed, Phoebe dozed in the kitchen. Philip was still in the were-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for Hester had gone home to her mother. Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip after the manner in which they had parted. All the despondency of her life became present to her again as she sat down within her home. She had forgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came back again. Still she was hungry and youthful and tired. She took her basin up and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her baby upstairs and ran away to attend to it. When it had been fed and hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted by some unusual noise in her room. She found Mrs. Robson awake and restless and ailing, dwelling much on what Philip had said in his anger against Sylvia. It was really necessary for her daughter to remain with her, so Sylvia stole out and went quickly downstairs to Philip, now sitting tired and worn out and eating his supper with little or no appetite, and told him she meant to pass the night with her mother. His answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so it seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she had done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of her mother's indisposition. As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down his half-finished basin of bread and milk and sate long, his face hidden in his folded arms. The wick of the candle grew long and black and fell and sputtered and guttered. He said on, unheeding either it or the pale gray fire that was dying out, dead at last. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 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 33 An Apparition Mrs. Robson was very poorly all night long. Uneasy thoughts seemed to haunt and perplex her brain, and she neither slept nor woke, but was restless and uneasy in her talk and movements. Sylvia lay down by her but got so little sleep that at length she preferred sitting in the easy chair by the bedside. Here she dropped off to slumber in spite of herself. The scene of the evening before seemed to be repeated. The cries of the many people, the heavy roar and dash of the threatening waves, were repeated in her ears, and something was said to her through all the conflicting noises. What it was, she could not catch. Though she strained to hear the horse murmur that, in her dream, she believed to convey a meaning of the utmost importance to her. This dream, that mysterious only half intelligible sound, recurred whenever she dozed, and her inability to hear the words uttered, distressed her so much that at length she, said bolt upright, resolve to sleep no more. Her mother was talking in a half-conscious way. Philip's speech of the evening before was evidently running in her mind. Sylvia, if thou art not a good wife to him, it'll just break my heart outright. A woman should obey her husband and not go her own gate. I never leave the house without telling father and getting his leave. And then she began to cry pitifully and to say unconnected things till Sylvia to soothe her, took her hand, and promised never to leave the house without asking her husband's permission. Though in making this promise, she felt as if she were sacrificing her last pleasure to her mother's wish. For she knew well enough that Philip would always raise objections to the rambles which reminded her of her old free open-air life. But to comfort and cherish her mother, she would have done anything. Yet this very morning that was dawning, she must go and ask his permission for a simple errand or break her word. She knew from experience that nothing quieted her mother so well as balm tea. It might be that the herb really possessed some sedative power. It might be only early faith and often repeated experience. But it had always had a tranquilizing effect. And more than once, during the restless hours of the night, Mrs. Robson had asked for it. But Sylvia's stalk of last year's dead leaves was exhausted. Still, she knew where a plant of bomb grew in the sheltered corner of Hader's Bank Farm Garden. She knew that the tenants who had succeeded them in the occupation of the farm had had to leave it in consequence of the death, and that the place was unoccupied. And in the darkness she had planned that if she could leave her mother after the dawn came and she had attended to her baby, she would walk quickly to the old garden and gather the tender sprigs which she was sure to find there. Now she must go and ask Philip. Until she held her baby to her breast, she bitterly wished that she were free from the duties and chains of matrimony. But the touch of its wax and fingers, the hold of its little mouth, made her relax into desolety and gentleness. She gave it back to Nancy to be dressed and softly opened the door of Philip's bedroom. Philip, said she gently, Philip, he started up from dreams of her, of her angry. He saw her there rather pale with her night's watch and anxiety, but looking meek and a little beseeching. Mother has had such a bad night. She fancied once as some bomb tea would do her good. It always used to, but my dried bomb is all gone. And I thought there'd be sure to be some in the old garden at Hager's Bank. Father planted a bush just for mother, where it always came up early, night-old elder-tree. And if you had not mind, I could run there while she sleeps and be back again in an hour, and it's not seven now. That was not where they self-out with running Sylvie, said Philip, eagerly. I'll get up and go myself. Or perhaps continued he catching the shadow that was coming over her face. Thou'd rather go thyself. It's only that I'm so afraid of thy tiring thyself. It'll not tire me, said Sylvie. Afore I was married, I was out often far farther than that. A field to fetch up to kind before my breakfast. Well, go if thou wilt, said Philip, but get somewhat to eat first, and don't hurry. There's no need for that. She had got her head in shawl, and was off before he had finished his last words. The long high street was almost empty of people at that early hour. One side was entirely covered by the cool morning shadow which lay on the pavement, and crept up the opposite houses till only the topmost story caught the rosy sunlight. Up the hill-road, through the gap in the stone wall, across the dewy fields, Sylvie went by the very shortest path she knew. She had only once been at Hader's Bank since her wedding day. On that occasion the place had seemed strangely and dissonantly changed by the numerous children who were diverting themselves before the open door, and whose playthings and clothes strewed the house-place, and made it one busy scene of confusion and untidiness, more like the Coney's kitchen in former times than her mother's orderly and quiet abode. Those little children were fatherless now, and the house was shut up, awaiting the entry of some new tenant. There were no shutters to shut. The long low window was blinking in the rays of the morning sun. The house and cowhouse doors were closed, and no poultry wandered about the field in search of stray grains of corn or early worms. It was a strange and unfamiliar silence, and struck solemnly on Sylvie's mind. Only a thrush in the old orchard down in the hollow, out of sight, whistled and gurgled with continual shrill melody. Sylvie went slowly past the house and down the path, leading to the wild, deserted bit of garden. She saw that the last tenants had had a pump sunk for them, and resented the innovation, as though the well she was passing could feel the insult. Over it grew two Hawthorne trees. On the bent trunk of one of them she used to sit long ago, the charm of the position being enhanced by the possible danger of falling into the well and being drowned. The rusty unused chain was wound round the windlass. The bucket was falling into pieces from dryness. A lean cat came from some outhouse, and mewed pitifully with hunger, accompanying Sylvie to the garden, as if glad of some human companionship, yet refusing to allow itself to be touched. Primroses grew in the sheltered places, just as they formerly did, and made the uncultivated ground seem less deserted than the garden, where the last year's weeds were rotting away and cumbering the ground. Sylvie forced her way through the berry bushes to the herb plot, and plucked the tender leaves she had come to seek, sighing a little all the time. Then she retraced her steps, paused softly before the house door, and entered the porch and kissed the senseless wood. She tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her arms, meaning to carry it home and befriend it, but it was scared by her endeavour and ran back to its home in the outhouse, making a green path across the white dew of the meadow. Then Sylvie began to hasten home, thinking and remembering. At the style that led into the road she was brought short up. Someone stood in the lane, just on the other side of the gap, his back was to the morning sun. All she saw at first was the uniform of a naval officer, so well known in Monkshaven in those days. Sylvie went hurrying past him not looking again, although her clothes almost brushed his, as he stood there still. She had not gone a yard, no not half a yard, when her heart leaped up and fell again dead within her as if she had been shot. Sylvie, he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and passionate love. Sylvie! She looked round. He had turned a little, so that the light fell straight on his face. It was bronzed, and the lines were strengthened, but it was the same face she had last seen in Hader's Bank Gully three long years ago, and had never thought to see in life again. He was close to her and held out his fond arms. She went fluttering towards their embrace as if drawn by the old fascination. But when she felt them close round her, she started away and cried out with a great pitiful shriek and put her hands up to her forehead as if trying to clear away some bewildering mist. Then she looked at him once more, a terrible story in her eyes if he could but have read it. Twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice the words were overwhelmed by the surges of her misery which bore them back into the depths of her heart. He thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, and he attempted to soothe her with soft murmurs of love and to woo her to his outstretched hungry arms once more. But when she saw this motion of his, she made a gesture as though pushing him away, and with an inarticulate moan of agony she put her hands to her head once more and turning away began to run blindly towards the town for protection. For a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at her behaviour, and then he thought it accounted for by the shock of his accost, and that she needed time to understand the unexpected joy. So he followed her swiftly, ever keeping her in view, but not trying to overtake her too speedily. I have frightened my poor love, he kept thinking, and by this thought he tried to repress his impatience and check the speed he longed to use. Yet he was always so near behind that her quick and sense heard his well-known footsteps following, and a mad notion flashed across her brain, that she would go to the wide full river and end the hopeless misery she felt in shrouding her. There was a sure-hiding place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe beneath the rushing waters borne landwards by the morning tide. No one can tell what changed her course. Perhaps the thought of her sucking child, perhaps her mother, perhaps an angel of God, no one on earth knows, but as she ran along the quayside she all at once turned up an entry and threw an open door. He, following all the time, came into a quiet dark parlor with a cloth and tea-things on the table ready for breakfast. The change from the bright sunny air out of doors to the deep shadow of this room made him think for the first moment that she had passed on and that no one was there. And he stood for an instant baffled, and hearing no sound but the beating of his own heart. But an irrepressible sobbing gasp made him look round, and there he saw her, cowered behind the door, her face covered tight up, and sharp shudders going through her whole frame. "'My love, my darling,' said he, going up to her, and trying to raise her, and to loosen her hands away from her face, "'I've been too sudden for thee. It was thoughtless in me. But I have so looked forward to this time, and seeing they come along the field and go past me. But I should have been more tender and careful of thee. Nay, let me have another look of thy sweet face.' All this he whispered in the old tones of maneuvering love, in that voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life and had not heard, for all her longing save in her dreams. She tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into the hidden shadow, to sink into the ground out of sight. Once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face and let him hear her speak, but she only moaned. Sylvia, said he, thinking he could change his tactics and peek her into speaking, that he would make a pretense of suspicion and offence. Sylvia, one would think you weren't glad to see me back again at length. I only came in late last night, and my first thought on awakening was of you. It has been ever since I left you.' Sylvia took her hands away from her face. It was gray as the face of death. Her awful eyes were passionless in her despair. Where have you been, she asked, in slow horse tones, as if her voice were half strangled within her. Ben said he, a red light coming into his eyes as he bent his looks upon her, now indeed a true and not an assumed suspicion entering his mind. Ben, he repeated, then coming a step nearer to her, and taking her hand, not tenderly this time but with a resolution to be satisfied. Did not your cousin, Hepburn, I mean? Did not he tell you? He saw the press gang seize me. I gave him a message to you. I bade you keep true to me as I would be to you. Between every clause of this speech he paused and gasped for her answer, but none came. Her eyes dilated, and held his steady gaze prisoner as with a magical charm. Neither could look away from the others' wild searching gaze. When he had ended, she was silent for a moment. Then she cried out, shrill and fierce, Philip! No answer. Wilder and shriller still, Philip! she cried. He was in the distant wear room, completing the last night's work, before the regular shop hours began, before breakfast also, that his wife might not find him waiting and impatient. He heard her cry, it cut through doors and still air, and great bales of woolen stuff. He thought that she had heard herself, that her mother was worse, that her baby was ill, and he hastened to the spot once the cry proceeded. On opening the door that separated the shop from the sitting room, he saw the back of a naval officer, and his wife on the ground huddled up in a heap. When she perceived him come in, she dragged herself up by means of a chair, groping like a blind person, and came and stood facing him. The officer turned fiercely round, and would have come towards Philip, who was so bewildered by the scene that even yet he did not understand who the stranger was, did not perceive for an instant that he saw the realization of his greatest dread. But Sylvia laid her hand on King Raid's arm, and assumed to herself the right of speech. Philip did not know her voice it was so changed. Philip, she said, this is King Raid, come back again to wed me. He is alive, he has never been dead, only taken by depressing. And he says you saw it, and knew it all to time. Speak, was it so? Philip knew not what to say, wither to turn, under what refuge of words or acts to shelter. Sylvia's influence was keeping King Raid silent, but he was rapidly passing beyond it. Speak he cried, loosening himself from Sylvia's light grasp, and coming towards Philip with a threatening gesture, did I not bid you tell her how it was? Did I not bid you say how I would be faithful to her, and she was to be faithful to me? Oh, you damned scoundrel, have you kept it from her all that time, and let her think me dead, or false? Take that! His closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his head with bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach, but Sylvia came swift between the blow and its victim. Charlie, thou shan't strike him, she said. He is a damned scoundrel. This was said in the hardest, quietest tone. But he is my husband. Oh, thou false heart, exclaimed King Raid, turning sharp on her. If ever I trusted woman, I trusted you, Sylvia Robson. He made as though throwing her from him, with a gesture of contempt that stung her to life. Oh, Charlie, she cried, springing to him, do not cut me to the quick. Have pity on me, though he had none. I did so lovely. It was my very heart-strengths, as gave way when they told me thou was drowned. Father, and the corny's in all everybody. My hat and to-bitter ribbon I gave, they were found drenched in dripping with sea-water, and I went mourning for thee all the day long. Did not turn away from me. Only harken this once, and then kill me dead, and I'll bless you. And have never been myself since. Never ceased to feel to sun-grow dark, and air chill, and dreary, when I thought under time when thou was alive. I did, my Charlie, my own love. And I thought that was dead for ever, and I wished I were lying beside thee. Oh, Charlie, Philip there where he stands could tell you this was true. Philip, wasn't it so? Would God I were dead, moan forth the unhappy guilty man? But she had turned to Kinraid, and was speaking again to him, and neither of them heard or heeded him. They were drawing closer and closer together, she with her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking eagerly. And Father was taken up, and all for setting some free as to press gang had gotten by a foul trick. And he were put to your prison, and tried and hung, hung, Charlie. Good kind Father was hung on a gallows, and mother lost her sense, and grew silly in grief. And we were like to be turned out onto wide world, and poor mother dateless. And I thought you were dead. Oh, I thought you were dead. I did. Oh, Charlie, Charlie. By this time they were in each other's arms. She with her head on his shoulder, crying as if her heart would break. Philip came forwards, and took hold of her to pull her away. But Charlie held her tight, mutely defying Philip. Unconsciously she was Philip's protection, in that hour of danger, from a blow which might have been his death, if strong will could have aided it to kill. Sylvie said he grasping her tight. Listen to me. He didn't love you as I did. He had loved other women. Ah, yo, you're alone. He loved other girls before you, had left off loving him. I wish God would free my heart from the pain. But it will go on till I die, whether you love me or not. And then where was I? Oh, that very night he was taken. I was a-thinking on you and on him. And I might have given you his message. But I heard them speaking of him as knowing him well, talking of his false fickle ways. How was I to know he would keep true to thee? It might be a sin in me. I cannot say. My heart and my sense are gone dead within me. I know this. I've loved you as no man but me ever loved before. Have some pity and forgiveness on me, if it's only because I've been so tormented with my love. He looked at her with feverish, eager wistfulness. It faded away into despair, as she made no sign of having even heard his words. He let go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side. I may die, he said, for my life is ended. Sylvie spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent. You are marriage is no marriage. You were tricked into it. You are my wife, not his. I am your husband. We plighted each other our troth. See, here is my half of the sixpence. He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his neck. When they stripped me and searched me in the French prison, I managed to keep this. No lies can break the oath we swore to each other. I can get your pre-tensive and marriage set aside. I'm in favour with my admiral, and he'll do a deal for me, and back me out. Come with me. Your marriage shall be set aside, and we'll be married again, all square and above-board. Come away. Leave that damned fellow to repent of the trick he played and on his sailor. We'll be true. Whatever is come and gone. Come, Sylvie. His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. Just then the baby cried. Hark! said she, starting away from Kinraid. Baby's crying for me. His child. Yes, it is his child. I'd forgotten that. Forgotten all. I'll make my vow now, lest I lose myself again. I'll never forgive young man, nor live with him as his wife again. All that's done and ended. He's spoiled my life. He's spoiled it for as long as ever I live on this earth. But neither you nor him shall spoil my soul. It goes hard with me, Charlie. It does indeed. I'll just give you one kiss. One little kiss. And then, so help me, God. I'll never see, nor hear till. No, not that. Not that is needed. I'll never see. Sure that's enough. I'll never see you again on this side heaven. So help me, God. I'm bound and tied. But I've sworn my oath to him as well as you. There's things I will do, and there's things I won't. Kiss me once more. God help me. He's gone. CHAPTER 34 A Wreckless Recruit She lay across a chair. Her arms helplessly stretched out, her face unseen. Every now and then a thrill ran through her body. She was talking to herself all the time with incessant low incontinence of words. Philip stood near her, motionless. He did not know whether she was conscious of his presence. In fact, he knew nothing but that he and she were sundered for ever. He could only take in that one idea, and it numbed all other thought. Once more, her baby cried for the comfort she alone could give. She rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to walk. Her glazed eyes fell upon Philip as he instinctively made a step to hold her steady. No light came into her eyes any more than if she had looked upon a perfect stranger. Not even was there the contraction of dislike. Some other figure filled her mind, and she saw him no more than she saw the inanimate table. That way of looking at him withered him up more than any sign of a version would have done. He watched her laboriously climb the stairs and vanish out of sight, and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme bodily weakness. The door of communication between the parlor and the shop was opened. That was the first event of which Philip took note. But Phoebe had come in unawares to him, with the intention of removing the breakfast things on her return from market, and seeing them unused, and knowing that Sylvia had sat up all night with her mother if she had gone back to the kitchen. Philip had neither seen nor heard her. Now Coulson came in, amazed at Hepburn's non-appearance in the shop. Why, Philip, what to do? How will you look, ma'am? exclaimed he, thoroughly alarmed by Philip's ghastly appearance. What's the matter? Aye, said Philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. Why should there be anything the matter? His instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him shrink from his misery being noticed, much more made any subject for explanation or sympathy. There may be nothing the matter with thee, said Coulson, but thou's a look of a carp's only face. I was afraid something were wrong, for it's half past nine and these are punctual. He almost guarded Philip into the shop, and kept furtively watching him, and perplexing himself with Philip's odd, strange ways. Hester, too, observed their heavy, broken-down expression on Philip's ashen face, and her heart ached for him. But after that first glance, which told her so much, she avoided all appearance of noticing or watching, only a shadow brooded over her sweet, calm face, and once or twice she sighed to herself. It was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing their store of gossip from the country or the town, from the farm or the quayside. Among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the night before furnished a large topic, and by and by Philip heard a name that startled him into attention. The landlady of a small public house, much frequented by sailors, was talking to Coulson. There was a sailor aboard of her, as know'd King Raid by sight, in shales years ago, and he called him by his name before they were well out on a river, and King Raid was no way set up for all his left and its uniform, and there but the sailor looks handsome in it, but he tells them all about it, how he were pressed aboard a man of war, and for his good conduct, were made a warrant officer, boatswain, or something. All the people in the shop were listening now. Philip alone seemed engrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as to leave no possible chance of creases in it. Yet he lost not a syllable of the good woman's narration. She, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had attracted, went on with fresh vigor. And there's a gallant captain, one Sir Sidney Smith, and he'd a notion of going smack into a French port, and carrying off a vessel from right under their very noses, and says he, which are you British sailors, will go along with me to death or glory, so King Raid stands up like a man, and I'll go with your captain, he says, so they and some others' brave went off and did their work, and choose whatever it was they did it famously. But they got caught by them French, and were clapped into prison in France for ever so long, but at last one Philip, Philip something, he were a Frenchman I know, helped them to escape in a fishing boat, but they were welcomed by the all British squadron, as was it channeled for a piece of daring they'd done, he cutting out ship from a French port, and Captain Sir Sidney Smith was made an admiral. And him as we used to call Charlie King Raid, the Spectioner, is made a Lieutenant, and a commissioned officer at King's service, and he's come to great glory. And slept in my house this very blessed night, as is just past. A murmur of applause and interest, and rejoicing buzzed all around Philip. All this was publicly known about King Raid, and how much more. All monks even might hear tomorrow, nay, today a Philip's treachery to the hero of the hour, how he had concealed his fate, and supplanted him in his love. Philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation, which he knew must follow. Any wrong done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the people's favour is resented by each individual as a personal injury, and among a primitive set of country folk who recognise the wild passion in love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason and self-restraint, any story of balked affections or treachery in such matters, spreads like wildfire. Philip knew this quite well. His doom of disgrace lay plain before him, if only King Raid spoke the word. His head was bent down while he thus listened and reflected. He half resolved on doing something. He lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face and the little strip of glass on the opposite side, in which the women might look at themselves and their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved. The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad pale face made plainer and grayer by the heavy pressure of the morning's events. He saw his stooping figure, his rounded shoulders, with something like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance, as he remembered the square upright build of King Raid, his fine uniform with epaulet and sword-belt, his handsome brown face, his dark eyes, splendid with the fire of passion and indignation, his white teeth gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn. The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness to active despair. He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty parlour, and on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece of bread, and heedless of Phoebe's looking words, began to eat it before he even left the place. For he needed the strength that food would give, he needed it to carry him out of the sight in the knowledge of all who might hear what he had done and point their fingers at him. He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting his teeth tight together, he went upstairs. First of all, he went into the bit of a room opening out of theirs in which his baby slept. He dearly loved the child, and many a time would run in and play a while with it, and in such gambles he and Sylvia had passed their happiest moments of wedded life. The little Bella was having her morning slumber. Nancy used to tell long afterwards how he knelt down by the side of her cot, and was so strange she thought he must have prayed. For all it was nigh upon eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only said their prayers when they got up and when they went to bed. Then he rose and stooped over, and gave the child a long, lingering, soft fond kiss. And on tiptoe he passed away into the room where his aunt lay, his aunt who had been so true a friend to him. He was thankful to know that in her presence late she was safe from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the sound of the shame to come. He had not meant to see Sylvia again. He dreaded the look of her hatred her scorn, but there outside her mother's bed she lay, apparently asleep. Mrs. Robson too was sleeping, her face towards the wall. Philip could not help it. He went to have one last look at his wife. She was turned towards her mother, her face averted from him. He could see the tear stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet quivering. He stooped down and bent to kiss the little hand that lay listless by her side. As his hot breath neared that hand it was twitched away, and a shiver ran through the whole prostrate body, and then he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by her misery, misery that he had caused. He sighed heavily, but he went away downstairs and away for ever. Only as he entered the parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes, one of himself, one of Sylvia, done in the first month of their marriage by some wandering artist, if so he could be called. They were hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames, black profiles with the lights done in gold, about as poor semblances of humanity as could be conceived, but Philip went up and after looking for a minute or so at Sylvia's, he took it down and buttoned his waistcoat over it. It was the only thing he took away from his home. He went down the entry onto the quay. The river was there and waters, they say, have a luring power and a weird promise of rest in their perpetual monotony of sound. But many people were there if such a temptation presented itself to Philip's mind. The sight of his fellow townsmen, perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him up another entry. The town as borrowed was such, back into the high street, which he straight away crossed into a well-known court, out of which rough steps led to the summit of the hill and onto the fells and moors beyond. He plunged and panted up this rougher scent. From the top he could look down on the whole town lying below, severed by the bright, shining river into two parts. To the right lay the sea, shimmering and heaving. There were the cluster of masts rising out of the little port. The irregular route of the houses. Which of them, thought he, as he carried his eye along the quayside to the market-place, which of them was his? And he singled it out in its unfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, where even now, Phoebe was cooking the household meal, that he never more must share. Up at that thought and away, he knew not, nor cared not wither. He went through the plowed fields where the corn was newly springing. He came down upon the vast, sunny sea, and turned his back upon it with loathing. He made his way inland to the high green pastures, the short upland turf above which the larks hung poised at heaven's gate. He strode along so straight and heedless of briar and bush, that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, and looked after him with their great blank puzzled eyes. He had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, and was fairly on the desolate brown moors, through the withered last years ling and fern, through the prickly gorse he trumped, crushing down the tender shoots of this year's growth, and heedless of the startled plover's cry, golded by the furies. His only relief from thought, from the remembrance of Sylvie's looks and words, was in violent, bodily action. So he went on, till evening shadows and ruddy evening lights came out upon the wildfells. He had crossed roads and lanes with a bitter avoidance of men's tracks, but now the strong instinct of self-preservation came out, and his aching limbs, his weary heart, giving great pants and beets for a time, and then ceasing all together till a mist swam and quivered before his aching eyes, warned him that he must find some shelter and food, or lie down to die. He fell down now, often, stumbling over the slightest obstacle. He had passed the cattle-pastures, he was among the black-faced sheep, and they too ceased nibbling and looked after him, and somehow, in his poor wandering imagination, their silly faces turned to likenesses among Savon's people, people who ought to be far, far away. Thou, Bibbel, ate it on these fells, if thou don't tack heed, shouted someone. Philip looked abroad to see whence the voice proceeded. An old, stiff-legged shepherd in a smock-frock was within a couple of hundred yards. Philip did not answer, but staggered and stumbled towards him. Good luck, said the man. Where hast I been? Thou, senor Dary, I think thou look so scared. Philip rallied himself and tried to speak up to the old standard of respectability, but the effort was pitiful to see had anyone been by who could have understood the pain it caused to restrain cries of bodily and mental agony. I have lost my way, that's all. It would have been enough, too, I'm thinking, if I hadn't come out after it used. There's three griffins near at hand. Supper Orleans all set their rates. Philip followed faintly. He could not see before him, and was guided by the sound of footsteps, rather than by the sight of the figure moving onwards. He kept stumbling, and he knew that the old shepherd swore at him. But he also knew such curses proceeded from no ill-will, only from annoyance at the delaying going, and seam after use. But had the man's words conveyed the almost expression of hatred Philip would neither have wondered at them nor resented them. They came into a wild mountain road, unfenced from the fells, a hundred yards off, and there was a small public house with a broad, ruddy oblong of firelight shining across the tract. There, said the old man, they cannot well miss that. I don't know, though, this be such a goby. So he went on, and delivered Philip safely up to the landlord. It is a felly as a fun-dump fell-side, just as one as if he were drunk. But, it is sober enough, I reckon, only so much wrong in his head, my thinking. No, said Philip, sitting down on the first day he came to, and right enough, just fully worried out, lost me way, and he fainted. There was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting in the house-place drinking. He too, like Philip, had lost his way, but was turning his blunder to account by telling all manner of wonderful stories to two or three rustics who would come in ready to drink on any pretense, especially if they could get good liquor without paying for it. The sergeant rose as Philip fell back, and brought up his own mug of beer, into which a noggin have gin had been put. Called in Yorkshire, dog's nose. He partly poured and partly spilt some of this beverage on Philip's face. Some drops went through the pale and parted lips, and with a start the one-out man revived. Bring him some victual, landlord. Called out the recruiting sergeant. I'll stand shot! They brought some cold bacon and coarse oat-cake. The sergeant asked for pepper and salt, minced the food fine and made it savoury, and kept administering it by teaspoonfuls, urging Philip to drink from time to time from his own cup of dog's nose. A burning thirst which needed no stimulant from either pepper or salt took possession of Philip, and he drank freely, scarcely recognising what he drank. It took effect on one so habitually sober, and he was soon in that state when the imagination works wildly and freely. He saw the sergeant before him, handsome and bright and active, in his gay red uniform, without a care, as it seemed to Philip, taking life lightly, admired and respected everywhere because of his cloth. If Philip were gay and brisk well-dressed like him, returning with martial glory to Munchshaven, would not Sylvia love him once more, could not he win her heart? He was brave by nature, and the prospect of danger did not daunt him, if ever it presented itself to his imagination. He thought he was cautious in entering on the subject of enlistment with his new friend, the sergeant, but the latter was twenty times as cunning as he, and knew by experience how to bait his hook. Philip was older by some years than the regulation age, but at that time of great demand for men the question of age was lightly entertained. The sergeant was profuse in statements of the advantages presented to a man of education in his branch of the service, how such a one was sure to rise, in fact it would have seemed from the sergeant's accounts as though the difficulty consisted in remaining in the ranks. Philip's dizzy head thought the subject over and over again, each time with failing power of reason. At length almost as it would seem by some slate of hand, he found the fatal shilling in his palm, and had promised to go before the nearest magistrate to be sworn in as one of his majesty's marines the next morning, and after that he remembered nothing more. He wakened up in a little chuckle-bed in the same room as the sergeant, who lay sleeping the sleeper full contentment, while gradually, drop by drop, the bitter recollections of the day before came, filling up Philip's cup of agony. He knew that he had received the bounty money, and though he was aware that he had been partly tricked into it, and had no hope, no care, indeed for any of the advantages so liberally promised him the night before, yet he was resigned, with utterly despondent passiveness, to the fate to which he had pledged himself. Anything was welcome that severed him from his former life, that could make him forget it, if that were possible, and also welcome anything which increased the chances of death without the simple-ness of his own participation in the act. He found, in the dark recess of his mind, the dead body of his fancy of the previous night, that he might come home, handsome and glorious, to win the love that had never been his. But he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of his sight, so full of despair was he. He could eat no breakfast, though the sergeant ordered of the best. The latter kept watching his new recruit out of the corner of his eye, expecting a remonstrance, or dreading a sudden bolt. But Philip walked with him the two or three miles in the most submissive silence, never uttering a syllable of regret or repentance. And before Justice Chumley, of Humphell Hall, he was sworn into his majesty's service under the name of Stephen Freeman. With a new name, he began a new life. Alas! the old life lives for ever. CHAPTER XXXV THINGS ANAUTERABLE After Philip had passed out of the room, Sylvia lay perfectly still, from very exhaustion. Her mother slept on, happily unconscious of all the turmoil that had taken place. Yes, happily, though the heavy sleep was to end in death. But of this her daughter knew nothing, imagining that it was refreshing slumber, instead of an ebbing of life. Both mother and daughter lay motionless, till Phoebe entered the room to tell Sylvia the dinner was on the table. Then Sylvia set up, and put back her hair, bewildered and uncertain as to what was to be done next, how she should meet the husband to whom she had discarded all allegiance, repudated the solemn promise of love and the obedience which she had vowed. Phoebe came into the room with natural interest in the invalid, scarcely older than herself. How was the old lady? asked she in a low voice. Sylvia turned her head round to look. Her mother had never moved, but was breathing in a loud, uncomfortable manner, that made her stoop over her to see the averted face more nearly. Phoebe, she cried, come here. She looks strange and old, her eyes are open, but don't see me. Sure enough, she's in a bad way, said Phoebe, climbing stiffly onto the bed to have a nearer view. Walter had a little bit to ease her breathing while I go for master. He'll be for sending for the doctor, I'll be bound. Sylvia took her mother's head and laid it fondly on her breast, speaking to her and trying to rouse her, but it was of no avail. The heart-startorious breathing grew worse and worse. Sylvia cried out for help. Nancy came, the baby in her arms. They had been in several times before that morning, and the child came smiling and crowing at its mother, who was supporting her own dying parent. Oh Nancy, said Sylvia, what is the matter with mother? You can see her face, tell me quick. Nancy said the baby on the bed for all reply, and ran out of the room, crying out, Master, Master, come quick! The old Mrs is a dying. This appeared to be no news to Sylvia, and yet the words came on her with a great shock. But all for that she could not cry. She was surprised herself at her own deadness of feeling. Her baby crawled to her, and she had to hold and guard both her mother and her child. It seemed a long, long time before anyone came, and then she heard muffled voices and a heavy trump. It was Phoebe leading the doctor upstairs, and Nancy creeping in behind to hear his opinion. He did not ask many questions, and Phoebe replied more frequently to his inquiries than did Sylvia, who looked into his face with a blank, tearless, speechless despair that gave him more pain than the sight of her dying mother. The long decay of Mrs. Robson's faculties and health, of which she was well aware, had in a certain manner prepared him for some such sudden termination of life whose duration was hardly desirable, although he gave several directions as to her treatment. But the white, pinched face, the grey, dilated eye, the slow comprehension of the young woman, struck him with alarm, and he went on asking for various particulars, more with a view of rousing Sylvia, if even it were to tears, than for any other purpose, that the information thus obtained could answer. You had best of pillows propped up behind her. It will not be for long. She does not know that you are holding her, and it is only tiring you to know purpose. Sylvia's terrible stare continued. He put his advice into action, and gently tried to loosen her clasp, and tender hold. This she resisted, laying her cheek against her poor mother's unconscious face. Where is Hebern? said he. He ought to be here. Phoebe looked at Nancy, Nancy at Phoebe. It was the latter who replied. He is neither in the house nor in the shop. A seat him go past the kitchen window, better nor an hour ago, but neither William Carlson nor Hester Rose knows where he is gone to. Dr. Morgan's lips were puckered up into a whistle, but he made no sound. Give me the baby, he said suddenly. Nancy had taken her up off the bed where she had been sitting, encircled by her mother's arm. The nursemaid gave her to the doctor. He watched the mother's eye, it followed her child, and he was rejoiced. He gave a little pinch to the baby's soft flesh, and she cried out pitiously. Again the same action, the same result. Sylvia laid her mother down and stretched out her arm for her child, hushing it and moaning over it. So far so good, said Dr. Morgan to himself. But where is the husband? He ought to be here. He went downstairs to make inquiry for Philip, that poor young creature, about whose health he had never felt thoroughly satisfied since the fever after her confinement was in an anxious condition and with an inevitable shock awaiting her. Her husband ought to be with her and supporting her to bear it. Dr. Morgan went into the shop. Hester was alone there. Carlson had gone to his comfortable dinner at his well-ordered house with his commonplace wife. If he had felt anxious about Philip's looks and strange disappearance, he had also managed to account for them in some indifferent way. Hester was alone with the shop boy. Few people came in during the universal monk-shaven dinner hour. She was resting her head on her hand, and puzzled undistressed about many things. All that was implied by the proceedings of the evening before between Philip and Sylvia. And that was confirmed by Philip's miserable looks and strange abstracted ways to-day. Oh, how easy Hester would have found it to make him happy. Not merely how easy. But what happiness it would have been to her to merge her every wish into the one great object of fulfilling his will. To her, an unlooker, the course of married life, which should lead to perfect happiness, seemed to plain. Alas, it is often so, and the resisting forces which make all such harmony and delight impossible are not recognized by the bystanders, hardly by the actors. But if these resisting forces are only superficial or constitutional, they are but necessary discipline here, and do not radically affect the love which will make all things right in heaven. Some glimmering of this latter comforting truth shed its light on Hester's troubled thoughts from time to time. But again, how easy would it have been to her to tread the maze that led to Philip's happiness, and how difficult it seemed to the wife he had chosen. She was aroused by Dr. Morgan's voice. So both Carlson and Hepburn had left the shop to York Air, Hester. I want Hepburn, though. His wife is in a very anxious state. Where is he? Can you tell me? Sylvia in an anxious state. I've not seen her to-day, but last night she looked as well as could be. Aye, aye, but many a thing happens in four and twenty hours. Her mother is dying, may be dead by this time, and her husband should be there with her. Can't you send for him? I don't know where he is, said Hester. He went off from here all on a sudden, when there was all the market folks in the shop. I thought it may be gone to John Foster's about the money, for they was paying a deal in. I'll send there and inquire. No, the messenger brought back words that he had not been seen at their bank all morning. Further inquiries were made by the anxious Hester, by the doctor, by Carlson. All they could learn was that Phoebe had seen him past the kitchen window about eleven o'clock, when she was peeling the potatoes for dinner. The two lads playing on the keyside thought they had seen him among a group of sailors, but these latter, as far as they could be identified, had no knowledge of his appearance among them. Before night the whole town was excited about his disappearance. Before night Belle Robson had gone to her long home, and Sylvia lay quiet and tearless, apparently more unmoved than any other creature by the events of the day, and the strange vanishing of her husband. The only thing she seemed to care for was her baby. She held it tight in her arms, and Dr. Morgan bathed them, leave it there. Its touch might draw the desired tears into her very sleepless eyes, and charm the aching pain out of them. They were afraid lest she should inquire for her husband, whose non-appearance at such a time of sorrow to his wife must, they thought, seem strange to her. And night drew on, while they were all in the state. She had gone back to her own room without the word, when they had desired her to do so, caressing her child in her arms, and sitting down on the first chair she came to, with a heavy sigh, as if even this slight bodily exertion had been too much for her. They saw her eyes turn toward the door every time it was opened, and they thought it was with anxious expectation of one who could not be found, though many were seeking for him in all probable places. When night came, someone had to tell her her husband's disappearance, and Dr. Morgan was the person who undertook this. He came into her room about nine o'clock. Her baby was sleeping in her arms. She herself pale as death, still silent and tearless, though strangely watchful of gestures and sounds, and probably cognizant of more than they imagined. Well, Mrs. Hubburn, said he as cheerfully as he could. I should advise you are going to bed early, for I fancy your husband won't come home tonight. Some journey or other, that perhaps Carlson can explain better than I can, will most likely keep him away till to-morrow. It's very unfortunate that he should be away at such a sad time as this, as I'm sure he'll feel when he returns. But we must make the best of it. He watched her to see the effect of his words. She sighed, that was all. He still remained a little while. She lifted her head up a little and asked, How long do you think she was unconscious, doctor? Could she hear things, dink you, before she fell into that strange kind of slumber? I cannot tell, said he, shaking his head. Was she breathing in that hard-snoring kind of way when you left her this morning? Yes, I think so. I cannot tell. So much has happened. When you came back to her after a breakfast, I think you said she was in much the same position. Yes, and yet I may be telling you lies, if I could but think. But it's my head as it's aching so, doctor. I wish you'd go, for I need being alone. I am so amazed. Good night, then, for you are a wise woman, I see, and mean to go to bed and have a good night with baby there. But he went down to Phoebe, and told her to go in from time to time, and see how her mistress was. He found Hester Rose and the old servant together. Both had been crying, both were evidently in great trouble about the death and the mystery of the day. Hester asked if she might go up and see Sylvia, and the doctor gave his leave, talking meanwhile with Phoebe over the kitchen fire. Hester came down again without seeing Sylvia. The door of the room was bolted, and everything quiet inside. Does she know where her husband is, thank you? asked the doctor at this account of Hester's. She's not anxious about him at any rate, or else the shock of her mother's death had been too much for her. We must hope for some change in the morning, a good fit of crying or a fidget about her husband would be more natural. Good night to you both. And he went off. Phoebe and Hester avoided looking at each other at these words. Both were conscious of the probability of something having gone seriously wrong between the husband and wife. Hester had the recollection of the previous night. Phoebe didn't taste at breakfast of today to go upon. She spoke first. I just wish he'd come home to still folk's tongues. It need never had been known if the old lady hadn't died this day of all others. It's such a thing for the shop to have one of the partners missing, and no one for to know what's come done him. It never happened in Froster's days, that's all I know. He'll maybe come back yet, said Hester. It's not so very late. It were market day and all, continued Phoebe. Just as if everything went wrong together. And all the country customers will go back with fine tail in their mouths, as Master Hebron was straight and missing just like a beast of some kind. Hark! Isn't that a step? said Hester suddenly, as a footfall sounded in the now quiet street, but it passed the door, and the hope that had arisen on its approach fell as the sound died away. He'll now come to-night, said Phoebe, who had been as eager a listener as Hester, however. Thou'd best go thy ways home. All shall stay up, for it's not seemly for us all to go to our beds, and the corpse is in the house, and Nancy, as might have watched, is going to her bed this hour past, like a lazy boot as she is. I can hear too if the Master does come home, though I'll be bound even not. Choose where he is, he'll be in bed by now, for it's well on to eleven. I'll let thee out by the shop door, and stand by it till thou's close at home, for it's ill for a young woman to be in the street so late. So she held the door open, and shaded the candle from the flickering outer air. While Hester went to her home with a heavy heart. Heavily and hopelessly did they all meet in the morning. No news of Philip, no change in Sylvia, an unceasing flow of angling and conjecture, and gossip radiating from the shop into the town. Hester could have entreated Coulson on her knees to cease from repeating the details of a story of which every word touched on her own place in her sensitive heart. Moreover, when they talked together so eagerly, she could not hear the coming footsteps on the pavement without. Once someone hid very near the truth in a chance remark. It seems strange, she said. How as one man turns up, another just disappears. Why, it were but upon Tuesday a skin-rate came back, as all of his own folk had told he might be dead. And the next day hears Master Hepburn, as is gone no one knows where. That's the way in this world, replied Coulson, a little sententiously. This life is full of changes of one kind or another. Damn this dead is alive, and as for poor Philip, though he was alive, he looked fitter to be dead, when he came into the shop of Wednesday morning. And how does she take it, nodding to where Sylvia was supposed to be? Oh, she's not herself, so to say. She were just stunned by finding her mother was dying in her very arms, when she thought as she were only sleeping. Yet she's never been able to cry a drop. So that's the sorrows gone inwards on her brain, and from all I can hear, she doesn't rightly understand as her husband is missing. The doctor says if she could but cry, she'd come to adjust her comprehension of things. And what do John and Jeremiah Foster say to it all? They are down here many a time in the day to ask if he's come back, or how she is, for they made a deal on them both. They are going to attend the funeral tomorrow, and have given orders as the shop is to be shut up in the morning. To the surprise of everyone, Sylvia, who had never left her room since the night of her mother's death, and was supposed to be almost unconscious of all that was going on in the house, declared her intention of following her mother to the grave. No one could do more than Remyn Strait, no one had sufficient authority to interfere with her. Dr. Morgan even thought that she might possibly be roused to tears by the occasion. Only he begged Esther to go with her, that she might have the solace of some woman's company. She went through the greater part of the ceremony in the same hard unmoved manner in which she had received everything for days past. But on looking up once, as they formed around the open grave, she saw Kaster, in his Sunday clothes, with a bit of new crepe around his head, crying as if his heart would break over the coffin of his good kind mistress. His evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly lose the fountain of Sylvia's tears, and her sobs grew so terrible that Esther feared she would not be able to remain until the end of the funeral. But she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she made an effort to go round by the place where Kaster stood. Come and see me. Was all she could say for crying, and Kaster only nodded his head. He could not speak a word. End of Chapter 35 That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen door. Phoebe opened it. He asked to see Sylvia. I know not if she'll see thee, said Phoebe. There's no making her out. Sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another. She bid me come and see her, said Kester, only this morning at Mrs. Berrien. She told me to come. So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was there, and returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlor. An instant after he was gone, Phoebe heard him return, and carefully shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and sitting room. Sylvia was in the latter, when Kester came in, holding her baby close to her. Indeed, she seldom let it go nowadays to anyone else, making Nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to Phoebe's indignation. Sylvia's face was shrunk and white and thin. Her lovely eyes alone retained the youthful, almost childlike expression. She went up to Kester and shook his horny hand. She herself trembling all over. Don't talk to me of her, she said hastily. I cannot stand it. It's a blessing for her to be gone, but oh! She began to cry, and then cheered herself up and swallowed down her sobs. Kester, she went on hastily. Charlie Kinraid isn't dead. Duster, no. He's alive, and he were here a Tuesday. No, Monday was it. I cannot tell, but he were here. I know that he weren't dead. Everyone is speaking on it, but I didn't know as Thede has seen him. I took comfort in thinking as thou have been with the mother at a time as he were into place. Then he's gone, said Sylvia, gone. Aye, days past. As far as I know, he but stopped a need. I thought to myself, but you may be sure I said not to nobody. He's here as our Sylvia were married, and has put it in his pipe, and tamed himself off to smoke it. Kester, said Sylvia, leaning forwards and whispering, I saw him. He was here. Philip saw him. Philip had known as he wasn't dead all this time. Kester stood up suddenly. Bye, gone! That chap has a deal to answer for. A bright red spot was on each of Sylvia's white cheeks, and for a minute or so neither of them spoke. Then she went on, still whispering out her words. Kester, I'm more afraid than I dare tell anyone. Can they have met? Thank you. To very thought turns me sick. I told Philip my mind, and took a vow again him. But it would be awful to think on how I'm happening to him through Kinraid. Yet he went out that morning, and has never been seen or heard on sin, and Kinraid would just fell again him. And as for that matter, so was I, but the red spot vanished as she faced her own imagination. Kester spoke. It's a thing as can be easily looked into. What day and time were it when Philip left his house? Tuesday, the day she died. I saw him in her room that morning between breakfast and dinner. I could almost swear it to its being close after eleven. Am I counting the clock? It was on that very morning as Kinraid were here. I'll go and have a pint of beer at the king's arms down onto Keyside. It were there he put up at. And I'm pretty sure as he only stopped one night, and left into morning betimes. But I'll go see. Doof said Sylvia, and go out through to shop. They're all watching and watching me to see how I take things, and I daren't let on about a fire as it's burning up my heart. Coulson is into shop, but he'll not notice thee like Phoebe. By and by Kester came back. It seemed as though Sylvia had never stirred. She looked eagerly at him, but did not speak. He went away a Rob Mason's mail cart. Him as takes to letters to Hartlepool. To Lieutenant, as they call him down into King's arms, they're as proud of his uniform, as if it had been a new-painted sign to swing o'er their doors. To Lieutenant had reckoned upon staying longer will. But he went out betimes a Tuesday morning, came back, odd ruffled up, and paid his bill, paid for his breakfast, though he touched none on it, and went off a Rob Postman's mail cart as starts regular at ten o'clock. Cornies had been there asking for him, and make it a piece of work, as he never went near him, and they'd be his cousins. Never a one among them knows as he were here as far as I could meck out. Thank you, Kester, said Sylvia, falling back into her chair, as if all the energy that had kept her stiff and upright was gone, now that her anxiety was relieved. She was silent for a long time. Her eyes shut. Her cheek laid on her child's head. Kester spoke next. I think it's pretty clear as they never met. But it's all to more wonder where thy husband's gone to. The in him had words about it, and thou tell'd him thy mind thou said. Yes, said Sylvia, not moving. I am a feared lest mother knows what I said to him. There, where she's gone to, I am. The tears filled her shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks. And yet it were true what I said. I cannot forgive him. He's just spoiled my life. And I'm not one in twenty yet, and he know'd how wretched, how very wretched I were. A word for him would amended it. Ah, and Charlie had bid him speak the word, and give me his faithful love, and Philip saw my heart ache day after day, and never let on, as him I was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he'd keep true to me, as I were doing to him. I wish I'd been there. I'd have felt him to the ground, said Kester, clenching his stiff hard hand with indignation. Sylvia was silent again. Pale and weary she sate. Her eyes still shut, then she said. Yet he were so good to mother, and mother loved him so. O Kester, lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, it's well for folks as can die, they're spared a deal of misery. I said he, but there's folks as one would like to keep for a shirk in their misery. Think you now as Philip is livin'. Sylvia shivered all over and hesitated before she replied. I do not know. I said such things. He deserved them all. Well, well, lest, said Kester, sorry that he had asked the question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another. Neither thee nor me can tell. We can neither help nor hinder, seein' as he's tayin' himself off out of our sight. We'd best not think on him. I'll try and tell thee some news, if I can think on it with my mind so full. Thou knows Hatersbank folk have flitted. And Thou would place his empty. Yes, said Sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with feeling. I only tell thee to count like for me bein' at loose end in Munchshaven. My sister, her has lived at Dayland and is a widow, has come into town to live, and I'm lodgin' where, and jobbin' about. I'm gettin' pretty well to do, and I'm known far to seek. And I'm goin' now, only first I just wanted for to say, as I'm thy oldest friend I reckon. And if I can do a turn for thee, or goin' errand, like as I've done today, or if it's any comfort to talk a bit to one who's known thy life from a babby, why have only to send for me? And I'd come if it were twenty mile. I'm lodgin' at Peggy Dawson's, to lath and Plaster College at the right hand of Treburidge. Ah, among to new houses, as they're thinkin' a buildin' near to sea, no one can miss it. He stood up and shook hands with her. As he did so, he looked at her sleeping baby. She's likeer, you will, than him. I think I'll say, God bless her. With the heavy sound of his outgoing footsteps, baby awoke, she ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the disturbance made her cry fretfully. Hush thee, darling, hush thee, murmured her mother. There's no one left to love me but thee, and I cannot stand thy weeping, my pretty one. Hush thee, my babe, hush thee. She whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairs to bed. About three weeks after the miserable date of Belle Robson's death and Philip's disappearance, Hester Rose received a letter from him. She knew the writing on the address well, and it made her tremble so much that it was many minutes before she dared to open it, and make herself acquainted with the facts it might disclose. But she need not have feared. There were no facts told, unless the vague date of London might be something to learn. Even that much might have been found out by the postmark. Only she had been too much taken by surprise to examine it. It ran as follows. Dear Hester, tell those to whom it may concern that I have left Monk's Haven forever. No one need trouble themselves about me. I am provided for. Please, to make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the mistress Foster, and to my partner William Coulson. Please, to accept of my love, and to join the same to your mother. Please, give my particular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt Isabella Robson. Her daughter Sylvia knows what I have always felt, and shall always feel, for her better than I can ever put into language. So I send her no message. God bless, and keep my child. You must all look on me as one dead, as I am to you, and maybe shall soon be in reality. Your affectionate and obedient friend to command, Philip Hepburn. P.S. Oh, Hester, for God's sake and mine. Look after. My wife scratched out. Sylvia and my child. I think Jeremiah Foster will help you to be a friend to them. This is the last solemn request of P.H. She is but very young. Hester read this letter again and again, till her heart caught the echo of its hopelessness and sank within her. She put it in her pocket, and reflected upon it all the day long as she served in the shop. The customers found her as gentle, but far more inattentive than usual. She thought that in the evenings she would go across the bridge, and consult with the two good old brothers Foster, but something occurred to put off the fulfillment of this plan. That same morning Sylvia had preceded her, with no one to consult, because consultation would have required previous confidence, and confidence would have necessitated such a confession about Kinraid, as it was most difficult for Sylvia to make. The poor young wife yet felt that some step must be taken by her, and what it was to be she could not imagine. She had no home to go to, for as Philip was gone away, she remained where she was only on sufferance. She did not know what means of livelihood she had. She was willing to work. Nay would be thankful to take up her old life of country labour. But with her baby, what could she do? In this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's kindly speech and offer of assistance, made it is true, half in joke, at the end of her wedding visit, came into her mind, and she resolved to go and ask for some of the friendly council and assistance then offered. It would be the first time of her going out since her mother's funeral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. More even than on that account did she shrink from going into the streets again. She could not get over the impression that Kinraid must be lingering near, and she distrusted herself so much, that it was a positive terror to think of meeting him again. She felt as though, if she but caught a sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard his well-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart would stop, and she should die from very fright of what would come next. Or rather so she felt, and so she thought, before she took her baby in her arms, as Nancy gave it to her after putting on its out-of-door attire. With it in her arms she was protected, and the whole current of her thoughts was changed. The infant was wailing and suffering with its teething, and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing and consoling her moaning child, that the dangerous key-side and the bridge were passed almost before she was aware. Nor did she notice the eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met, who recognized her even through the heavy veil which formed part of the draping moaning provided for her by Hester and Coulson in the first unconscious days after her mother's death. Though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon Philip's disappearance, warned possibly by Kinraid's story against hasty decisions and judgments in such times as those of war and general disturbance, yet everyone agreed that no more pitiful fate could have befallen Philip's wife. Marked out by her striking beauty as an object of admiring interest, even in those days when she sat in girlhood smiling peace by her mother at the market-cross, her father had lost his life in a popular cause and ignominious as the manner of his death might be, he was looked upon as a martyr to his zeal in avenging the wrongs of his townsmen. Sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quiet daily life was well known to them, and now her husband had been carried off from her side just on the very day when she needed his comfort most. For the general opinion was that Philip had been carried off, in seaport towns such occurrences were not uncommon in those days, either by land crimps or water crimps. So Sylvia was treated with silent reverence as one sorely afflicted by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering walk to Jeremiah Foster's. She had calculated her time so as to fall in with him in his dinner-hour, even though it obliged her to go to his own house rather than to the bank where he and his brothers spent all the business hours of the day. Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and the weight of her baby that all she could do when the door was opened was to totter into the nearest seat, sit down, and begin to cry. In an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her heavy cloak, offering to relieve her of her child, who clung to her all the more firmly, and someone was pressing a glass of wine against her lips. No, sir, I cannot take it. Wine always gives me the headache. If I might have just a drink of water. Thank you, ma'am, to the respectable-looking old servant. I'm well enough now, and perhaps, sir, I might speak a word with you, for it's that I've come for. It's a pity Sylvia had burned, as, indeed, it's not come to me at the bank, for it's been a long toil for the all this way in the heat with thy child. But if there's art I can do or say for thee, thou hast but to name it, I am sure. Martha, wilt thou relieve her of her child while she comes with me into the parlour? But the willful little Bella stoutly refused to go to any one, and Sylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was. So the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her afterlife depended on this trivial fact. Once installed in the easy chair and face to face with Jeremiah, Sylvia did not know how to begin. Jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover herself, by pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle before the child's eyes, almost within reach of the child's eager little fingers. She favors you a deal, said he at last, more than her father he went on, purposely introducing Philip's name so as to break the ice, for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him about something connected with her husband. Still Sylvia said nothing. She was choking down tears and shyness, and unwillingness to take as confidant, a man of whom she knew so little, on such slight ground, as she now felt it to be, as the little kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from that house the last time she had entered it. It's no use keeping you, sir, she broke out at last. It's about Philip as I come to speak. Do you know anything whatsoever about him? He never had a chance to say in anything. I know, but maybe he's written. Not a line, my poor young woman, said Jeremiah, hastily putting an end to that vain idea. Then he's either dead or gone away forever, she whispered. I'm on be both father and mother to my child. Oh, they must not give it up, replied he. Many a one is carried off to the wars, or to the tenders of men a war, and they turn out to be unfit for service, and are sent home. Philip will come back before the years out. They'll see that. No, he'll never come back. And I'm not sure as I should ever wish him to come back, if I could but know what was gone with him. You'll see, sir, though I were sore-setic in him, I shouldn't like harm to happen him. There is something behind all this that I do not understand. Can they tell me what it is? I must, sir, if you're to help me, we are counsel, and I came up here to ask for it. Another long pause, during which Jeremiah made a faint of playing with the child, who danced and shouted with tantalized impatience at not being able to obtain possession of the seal, and at length stretched out her soft round little arms to go to the owner of the coveted possession. Surprise at this action roused Sylvia, and she made some comment upon it. I never knew her to go to any one of four. I hope she'll not be troublesome to you, sir. The old man who had often longed for a child of his own in days gone by, was highly pleased by this mark of baby's confidence, and almost forgot, in trying to strengthen her regard by all the winning wiles in his power, how her poor mother was still lingering over some painful story which she could not bring herself to tell. I'm a fear to speak and wrong again any one, sir, and mother was so fond of Philip, but he kept something from me, as would have made me a different woman, and someone else happened a different man. I would troat, plighted, wikinre, this bexineer, him as was cousin to the corn is a moss-brow, and come back lieutenant in Tenebe last Tuesday three weeks, after everyone had thought him dead and gone these three years. She paused. Well, said Jeremiah with interest, although his attention appeared to be divided between the mother's story and the eager playfulness of the baby on his knee. Philip knew he were alive, he'd seen him taken by depress gang, and Charlie had sent a message to me by Philip. Her white face was reddening, her eyes flashing at this point of her story, and he never told me a word on it, not when he saw me like to break my heart and thinkin' his kin raider dead. He kept it odd to himself, and watched me cry, and never said a word to comfort me with a truth. It would have been a great comfort, sir, only to have had his message, if I'd never have been to see him again. But Philip never let on to anyone, as I ever heared on, that he'd seen Charlie that morning as depress gang took him. You know about Father's death, and how friendless mother and me was left, and so I married him. For he were a good friend to us then, and I were dazed like with sorrow, and could see not else to do for mother. He were all as very tender and good to her, for sure. Again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one or two deep sighs. If I go on, sir, now, I'm on ask you to promise, as you'll never tell. I do so need someone to tell me what I ought to do, and I were led here like, else I would have died with it all within my teeth. You'll promise, sir? Jeremiah Foster looked in her face, and seeing the wistful eager look, he was touched almost against his judgment, into giving the promise required. She went on. Upon a Tuesday morning three weeks ago, I think, though for to matter a time it might have been three years, Kinraid come home, come back for to claim me as his wife. And I were wed to Philip. I met him into road at first, and I couldn't tell him there. He followed me into the house, Philip's house, sir, behind a shop, and somehow I told him all, how I were a wedded wife to another. Then he up and said I'd a false heart, me false, sir, as had eaten my daily bread and bitterness, and had wept to nights through, all for sorrow and mourning for his death. Then he said as Philip knowed all the time he were alive and coming back for me, and I couldn't believe it, and I called Philip, and he come, and all that Charlie had said were true, and yet I were Philip's wife, so I took a mighty oath, and I said as I'd never hold Philip to be my lawful husband again, nor ever forgive him for to evil he wrought us, but hold him as a stranger, and one as had done me a heavy wrong. She stopped speaking. Her story seemed to her to end there, but her listener said after a pause, It were a cruel wrong, I grant thee that, but thy oath were a sin, and thy words were evil, my poor lass. What happened next? I don't justly remember, said she, Whirly. Kin Raid went away, and mother cried out, and I went to her. She were asleep, I thought, so I lay down by her to wish I were dead, and to think on what would come on my child if I died, and Philip came in softly, and I made as if I were asleep. And that's to very last as I've ever seen or heard of him. Jeremiah Foster groaned as she ended her story. Then he pulled himself up and said in a cheerful tone of voice, He'll come back, Sylvia Hepburn, he'll think better of it, never fear. I fear he's coming back, said she. That's what I'm feared on. I would wish as I knew on his well-doing in some other place, but him and me can never live together again. Nay pleaded Jeremiah. They aren't sorry what they said. They were sore put about, or they wouldn't have said it. He was trying to be a peacemaker and to heal over conjugal differences, but he did not go deep enough. I'm not sorry, said she slowly. I were too deeply wrong to be put about. That would go off with a night's sleep. It's only the thought of mother. She's dead and happy and knows not of all this I trust. That comes between me and hating Philip. I'm not sorry for what I said. Jeremiah had never met with anyone so frank and undisguised in expressions of wrong feeling, and he scarcely knew what to say. He looked extremely grieved and not a little shocked, so pretty and delicate a young creature to use such strong, relentless language. She seemed to read his thoughts, for she made answer to them. I dare say you think I'm very wicked, sir, not to be sorry. Perhaps I am. I can't think of that, for remembering how I've suffered, and he knew how miserable I was, and might have cleared my misery away with a word, and he held his peace, and now it's too late. I'm sick of men and their cruel deceitful ways. I wish I were dead. She was crying before she had ended this speech, and seeing her tears, the child began to cry too. Stretching out its little arms to go back to its mother, the hard, stony look on her face melted away into the softest, tenderest love as she clasped the little one to her, and tried to soothe its frightened sobs. A bright thought came into the old man's mind. He had been taking a complete dislike to her, till her pretty way with her baby showed him that she had a heart of flesh within her. Poor little one, said he, thy mother had need love thee, for she's deprived thee of thy father's love. Thou art half-way to be an orphan, yet I cannot call thee one of the fatherless to whom God will be a father. Thou art a desolate baby, thou mayst well cry, thine earthly parents have forsaken thee, and I know not if the Lord will take thee up. Sylvia looked up at him, affrighted. Holding her baby tighter to her, she exclaimed, Don't speak so, sir, it's cursing, sir. I haven't forsaken her. Oh, sir, those are awful sayings. They have sworn never to forgive thy husband, nor to live with him again. Dust thee know that by the law of the land he may claim his child, and then thou wilt have to forsake it, or to be forsworn. Poor little maiden, continued he, once more luring the baby to him with the temptation of the watch and chain. Sylvia thought for a while before speaking, then she said, I cannot tell what ways to take, whilst I think my head is crazed. It were a cruel turn he did me. It was, I couldn't have thought him guilty of such baseness. This acquiescence, which was perfectly honest on Jeremiah's part, almost took Sylvia by surprise. Why might she not hate one who had been both cruel and base in his treatment of her, and yet she recoiled from the application of such hard terms by another to Philip, by a cool judging and indifferent person, as she esteemed Jeremiah to be? From some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, she began to defend him, or at least to paliate the harsh judgment which she herself had been the first to pronounce. He were so tender to mother, she were dearly fond on him, he never spared ought he could do for her, else I would never have married him. He was a good and kind-hearted lad from the time he was fifteen, and I never found him out in any falsehood, no more did my brother. But it were all the same as Eli said Sylvia swiftly changing her ground, to leave me to think as Charlie were dead, when he knowed all to time he were alive. It was, it was a self-seeking lie, putting thee to pain to get his own ends, and the end of it has been, that he is driven forth like cane. I never told him to go, sir, but thy word sent him forth, Sylvia. I cannot unsay them, sir, and I believe as I should say them again. But she said this as one who rather hopes for a contradiction. All Jeremiah replied, however, was, poor wee child, in a pitiful tone addressed to the baby. Sylvia's eyes filled with tears. Oh, sir, I'll do anything as ever you can tell me for her. That's what I came for to ask you. I know I may not stay there, and Philip gone away, and I did not know what to do, and I'll do art, only I must keep her with me. Whatever can I do, sir? Jeremiah thought it over for a minute or two. Then he replied, I must have time to think. I must talk it over with brother John. But you've given me your word, sir, exclaimed she. I have given thee my word never to tell anyone of what has passed between thee and thy husband, but I must take counsel with my brother as to what is to be done with thee and thy child, now that thy husband has left the shop. This was said so gravely as almost to be a reproach, and he got up as a sign that the interview was ended. He gave the baby back to its mother, but not without a solemn blessing. So solemn that, to Sylvia's superstitious and excited mind, it undid the terrors of what she had esteemed to be a curse. The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee. All the way down the hillside Sylvia kept kissing the child and whispering to its unconscious ears, I'll love thee for both my treasure I will. I'll happily round with my love, so as thou shall never meet a fethers. End of Chapter 36