 CHAPTER 18 EDDY IN LOVE'S CURRENT The next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a March morning did. The beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whatever storms it might go raging out. It was long since Philip had tasted the freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, as his employment at the shop detained him in Munchshaven till the evening. And as he turned down the keys, or stades, on the north side of the river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea breeze blowing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright and elastic. With his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was prepared for a good stretch towards Hartlepool, whence a coach would take him to Newcastle before night. For seven or eight miles the level sands were a short and far more agreeable a road than the up and down landways. Philip walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoying the sunny landscape before him, the crisp, curling waves rushing almost up to his feet on his right hand, and then swishing back over the fine small pebbles into the great swelling sea. To his left were the cliffs rising one behind another, having deep gullies here and there between, with long green slopes upward from the land, and then sudden falls of brown and red soil or rock deepening to a yet greater richness of colour at their base towards the blue ocean before him. The loud monotonous murmur of the advancing and receding waters lulled him into dreaminess, the sunny look of everything tinged his daydreams with hope. So he trudged merrily over the first mile or so, not an obstacle to his measured pace on the hard level pavement, not a creature to be seen since he had left the little gathering of bare-legged urchins dabbling in the sepals near Munchshaven. The cares of land were shut out by the glorious barrier of rocks before him. There were some great masses that had been detached by the action of the weather, and lay half embedded in the sand, draped over by the heavy pendant olive-green seaweed. The waves were nearer at this point, the advancing sea came up with a mighty distant length of roar. Here and there the smooth swell was lashed by the fret against unseen rocks into white breakers, but, otherwise, the waves came up from the German ocean upon that English shore with a long, steady roll that might have taken its first impetus far away in the haunt of the sea-serpent on the coast of Norway over the foam. The air was soft as may. Right overhead the sky was blue, but it deadened into grey near the sea-lines. Flocks of seagulls hovered about the edge of the waves, slowly rising and turning their white under-plumeage to glimmer in the sunlight as Philip approached. The whole scene was so peaceful, so soothing, that it dispelled the cares and fears, too well founded in fact, which had weighed down on his heart during the dark hours of the past night. There was Hater's Bank Gully opening down its green entrance among the warm brown bases of the cliffs. Below, in the sheltered brushwood, among the last years withered leaves, some primroses might be found. He half thought of gathering Sylvia a posy of them and rushing up to the farm to make a little farewell peace offering. But, on looking at his watch, he put all thoughts of such an action out of his head. It was above an hour later than he had supposed, and he must make all haste onto Harlepool. Just as he was approaching this gully, a man came dashing down and ran out somewhere upon the sand with the very force of his descent. Then he turned to the left and took the direction of Harlepool a hundred yards or so in advance of Philip. He never stayed to look round him, but went swiftly and steadily on his way. By the peculiar lurch in his walk, by everything, Philip knew it was the Spectchaneer, Kyn Raid. Now the road up Hater's Bank Gully led to the farm and nowhere else. Still, anyone wishing to descend to the shore might do so by first going up to the Robson's house and skirting the walls till they came to the little slender path down to the shore. But, by the farm, by the very house door they must have necessity pass. Philip slackened his pace, keeping under the shadow of the rock. By and by, Kyn Raid, walking on the sunlight-open sands, turned round and looked long and earnestly towards Hater's Bank Gully. Hepburn paused when he paused, but as intently as he looked at some object above so intently did Hepburn look at him. No need to ascertain by sight towards whom his looks, his thoughts, were directed. He took off his hat and waved it, touching one part of it as if with particular meaning. When he turned away at last, Hepburn heaved a heavy sigh and crept yet more into the cold, dank shadow of the cliffs. Each step was now a heavy task, his sad heart tired and weary. After a while he climbed up a few feet, so as to mingle his form yet more completely with the stones and rocks around. Stumbling over the uneven and often jagged points, slipping on the seaweed, plunging into little pools of water left by the ebbing tide in some natural basins, he kept yet his eyes fixed as if in fascination on Kyn Raid and made his way almost alongside of him. But the last hour had pinched Hepburn's features into something of the one haggardness they would wear when he should first be lying still forever. And now the two men were drawing near a creek about eight miles from Munchshaven. The creek was formed by a beck, or small stream, that came flowing down from the moors and took its way to the sea between the widening rocks. The melting of the snows and running of the flooded water springs above made this beck in the early springtime both deep and wide. Hepburn knew that here they both must take a path leading inland to a narrow footbridge about a quarter of a mile up the stream, indeed from this point owing to the jutting out of the rocks the land path was the shortest, and this way lay by the water side at an angle right below the cliff to which Hepburn's steps were leaning him. He knew that on this long-level field path he might easily be seen by anyone following, nay, if he followed anyone at a short distance, for it was full of turnings, and he resolved, late as he was, to sit down for a while till can raid as far enough in advance for him to escape being seen. He came up to the last rock behind which he could be concealed. Seven or eight feet above the stream he stood and looked cautiously for the spectre near. Up by the rushing stream he looked, then right below. It is God's Providence, he murmured. It is God's Providence. He crouched down where he had been standing and covered his face with his hands. He tried to deafen as well as to blind himself that he might neither hear nor see anything of the coming event of which he, an inhabitant of Munch's Haven at that day, well understood the betokening signs. Can raid had taken the larger angle of the sands before turning up towards the bridge. He came along now nearing the rocks. By this time he was sufficiently buoyant to whistle to himself. It steeled Philip's heart to what was coming. To hear his rival whistling, we'll may the keel row, so soon after parting with Sylvia. The instant king raid turned the corner of the cliff, the ambush was upon him. Four man of war's men sprang on him and strove to pinion him. In the king's name! cried they with rough triumphant jeers. Their boat was moored not a dozen yards above. They were sent by the tender of a frigate lying off Hartlepool for fresh water. The tender was at anchor just beyond the jutting rocks in face. They knew that fishermen were in the habit of going to and from their nets by the side of the creek, but such a prize as this, active, strong and evidently superior sailor, was what they had not hoped for and their endeavours to secure him were in proportion to the value of the prize. Although taken by surprise and attacked by so many, king raid did not lose his wits. He wrenched himself free, crying out loud. I've asked, I'm a protected whaler, I claim my protection, of my papers to show, and bonded spectre near to the uranium whaler, donkey captain or shield's port. As a protected whaler, the press gang had, by the 17th section of Act 26, George III, no legal right to seize him, unless he had failed to return to his ship by the 10th of March, following the date of his bond. But of what use were the papers he hastily dragged out of his breast, of what use were laws in those days of slow intercourse with such as were powerful enough to protect and in the same time of popular panic against a French invasion? Damn your protection! cried the leader of the press gang. Go and serve his majesty! That's better than catching whales! Is it, though? said the spectre near with a motion of his hand, which the swift-eyed sailor opposed to him, saw and interpreted rightly. Thou wilt wilt, thou? close with him, Jack, and wear the cutlass. In a minute his cutlass was forced from him, and it became a hand-to-hand struggle of which, from the difference in numbers, it was not difficult to foretell the result. Yet, king raid made desperate efforts to free himself. He wasted no breath in words, no thought, as the men said, like a very devil. Hepburn heard loud pants of breath, great thuds, the dull struggle of limbs on the sand, the growling curses of those who thought to have managed their affair more easily, the sudden cry of some one wounded, not king raid he knew, king raid would have borne any pain in silence at such a moment, another wrestling, swearing, infuriated strife, and then a strange silence. Hepburn sickened at the heart. Was then his rival dead? Had he left this bright world? Lost his life, his love? For an instant, Hepburn felt guilty of his death. He said to himself he had never wished him dead, and yet in the struggle he had kept aloof, and now it might be too late for ever. Philip could not bear the suspense. He looked stealthily round the corner of the rock behind which he had been hidden, and saw that they had overpowered king raid, and, too exhausted to speak, were binding him hand and foot to carry him to their boat. King raid lay as still as any hedgehog. He rolled when they pushed him. He suffered himself to be dragged without any resistance, any motion. The strong colour brought into his face while fighting was gone now. His countenance was livid pale. His lips were tightly held together, as if it cost him more effort to be passive, wooden and stiff in their hands than it had done to fight and struggle with all his might. His eyes seemed the only part about him that showed cognizance of what was going on. They were watchful, vivid, fierce, as those of a wild cat brought to bay, seeking in its desperate quickened brain for some mode of escape not yet visible, and in all probability never to become visible to the hopeless creature in its supreme agony. Without a motion of his head, he was perceiving and taking in everything while he lay bound at the bottom of the boat. A sailor sat by his side, who had been hurt by a blow from him. The man held his head in his hand, moaning. But every now and then he revenged himself by a kick at the prostrate's spectre near, till even his comrade stopped their cursing and swearing at the prisoner for the trouble he had given them to cry shame on their comrade. But King raid never spoke nor shrank from the outstretched foot. One of his captors, with the successful insolence of victory, ventured to jail him on the supposed reason for his vehement and hopeless resistance. He might have said yet more insolent things. The kicks might have hit harder. King raid did not hear or heed. His soul was beating itself against the bars of inflexible circumstance, reviewing in one terrible instant of time what had been what might have been what was. Yet, while these thoughts thus stabbed him, he was still mechanically looking out for chances. He moved his head a little, so as to turn towards haters' bank, where Sylvia must be, quickly, if sadly, going about her simple daily work. And then his quick eye caught Hepburn's face, blanched with excitement rather than fear, watching eagerly from behind the rock, where he had sat breathless during the affray and the impressment of his rival. Come here, lad! Shouted inspectioneers as soon as he saw Philip heaving and writhing his body the while, who is so much a vigor that the sailors started away from the work they were engaged in about the boat, and held him down once more, as if afraid he should break the strong rope that held him, like withes of green flaps. But the bound man had no such notion in his head. His mighty wish was to call Hepburn near that he might send some message by him to Sylvia. Come here, Hepburn! he cried again, falling back this time so weak and exhausted that the man of war's men became sympathetic. Come down, peeping Tom, and don't be feared! They called out. I'm not afraid, said Philip. I'm no sailor for you to impress me. Nor have you any right to take that fellow. He's a green inspectioneer under protection as I know and can testify. You and your testify, go-wang! Make haste, man, and ear what this gentleman, as was in a dirty, blubbery wheel-ship, and is now in his majesty's service, has got to say, and dare say, Jack, went on the speaker, is some message to his sweet heart, asking her to come for to serve on board ship, along with he, like Billy Taylor's young woman. Philip was coming towards them slowly, not from want of activity, but because he was undecided what he should be called upon to do or to say by the man whom he hated and dreaded, yet whom just now he could not help admiring. King Raid groaned with impatience at seeing one free to move with quick decision, so slow and dilatory. Come on, then, cried the sailors. Oh, we'll take you to on board, and run you up and down May mass a few times. Nothing like life aboard ship for quicken in a landlubber. You better tear Kim and leave me, said King Raid grimly. I've been taught my lesson, and seemingly he has his yet to learn. Is Majesty into schoolmaster to need scholars, but a jolly good captain to need men? replied the leader of the gang, I and Philip nevertheless, I and Philip nevertheless, and questioning with him himself how far, with only two other available men, they dosed venture on his capture as well as the Spectrenears. It might be done, he thought, even though there was this powerful captain aboard, and the boat to manage two. But running his eye over Philip's figure, he decided that the tall, stooping fellow was never cut out for a sailor, and that he should get small thanks if he captured him to pay him for the possible risk of losing the other. Or else the mere fact of being a landsman was of as little consequence to the prescan as the protecting papers which Kim Raid had vainly showed. Young fellow, want to be worth his grog this many a day, and be damned to you, said he, catching headburn by the shoulder and giving him a push. Philip stumbled over something in this, his forced run. He looked down, his foot had caught in Kim Raid's hat, which had dropped off in the previous struggle. In the band that went round the low crown, a ribbon was knotted, a piece of that same ribbon which Philip had chosen out with such tender hope to give to Sylvia for the corny's party on New Year's Eve. He knew every delicate thread that made up the briarow's pattern, and a spasm of hatred towards Kim Raid contracted his heart. He had been almost relenting into pity for the man captured before his eyes. Now he abhorred him. Kim Raid did not speak for a minute or two. The sailors, who had begun to take him into favour, were all a gog with curiosity to hear the message to his sweetheart, which they believed he was going to send. Hepburn's perceptions, quickened with his vehement agitation of soul, were aware of this feeling of theirs, and it increased his rage against Kim Raid, who had exposed the idea of Sylvia to be the subject of rivaled whispers. But the spectre near cared little what others said or thought about the maiden, whom he yet saw before his closed eyelids, as she stood watching him from the haters' bank gully, waving her hands, her handkerchief, all in one passion at farewell. What do you want with me? Asked Hepburn at last in a gloomy tone. If he could have helped it, he would have kept silence till Kim Raid spoke first, but he could no longer endure the sailors' nudges and winks and jests among themselves. Tell Sylvia, said Kim Raid. There's a smart name for his sweet heart, exclaimed one of the men, but Kim Raid went straight on. What you've seen. I've been pressed by this cursed gang. Civil words, mess mate, if you please. Sylvia can't abide cursing and swearing. I'm sure. We're gentlemen serving his majesty on board the Alcestis, and this proper young fellow shall be helped onto more honour and glory than he'd ever get bobbin' for whales. Tell Sylvia this with my love. Jack Carter's love, if she's anxious about my name. One of the sailors laughed at this rude humour. Another, Bade Carter, hold his stupid tongue. Philip hated him in his heart. Kim Raid hardly heard him. He was growing faint with the heavy blows he had received, the stunning fall he had met with, and the reaction from his dogged self-control at first. Philip did not speak nor move. Tell her, continued Kim Raid, rousing himself for another effort. What you've seen. Tell her I'll come back to her. Bid her not forget the great oath we took together this morning. She's as much my wife as if we'd gone to church. I'll come back and marry her for long. Philip said something inarticulately. Hurrah, cried Carter, and I'll be best man. Tell her too that I'll have an iron air-suit out and keep him from running after other girls. He'll have your hands full then. Muttered Philip, his passion boiling over at the thought of having been chosen out from among all men to convey such a message as Kim Raid's to Sylvia. Make an end to your damn yans and be off. Said the man who had been hurt by Kim Raid. He would stay to part and silent till now. Philip turned away. Kim Raid raised himself and cried after him. Hepburn, Hepburn, tell her! What he added Philip could not hear, for the words were lost before they reached him, and the outward noise of the regular splash of the oars, and the rush of the wind down the gully, with which mingled the closer sound that filled his ears of his own hurrying blood surging up into his brain. He was conscious that he had said something in reply to Kim Raid's adoration that he would deliver his message to Sylvia, at the very time when Carter had stung him into fresh anger by the allusion to the possibility of the Spectioneers running after other girls. For, for an instant, Hepburn had been touched by the contrast of circumstances. Kim Raid an hour or two ago, Kim Raid a banished man, for in those days an impressed sailor might linger out years on some foreign station, far from those he loved, who all this time remained ignorant of his cruel fate. But Hepburn began to wonder what he himself had said, how much of a promise he had made to deliver those last passionate words of Kim Raid's. He could not recollect how much, how little he had said. He knew he had spoken hoarsely and low, almost at the same time as Carter had uttered his loud joke, but he doubted if Kim Raid had caught his words. And then the dread inner creature, who lurks in each of our hearts, arose and said, It is as well, a promise given as a fetter to the giver, but a promise is not given when it has not been received. At a sudden impulse, he turned again towards the shore when he had crossed the bridge, and almost ran towards the verge of the land. Then he threw himself down the soft fine turf that grew on the margin of the cliffs overhanging the sea, and commanding an extent of view towards the north. His face, supported by his hands, he looked down upon the blue rippling ocean, flashing here and there, into the sunlight in long, glittering lines. The boat was still in the distance, making her swift, silent way with long regular bounds to the tender that lay in the offing. Hepburn felt insecure, as in a nightmare dream, so long as the boat did not reach her immediate destination. His contracted eyes could see four minute figures rowing with ceaseless motion and a fifth sight at the helm. But he knew there was a sixth, unseen, lying bound and helpless at the bottom of the boat, and his fancy kept expecting this man to start up and break his bonds, and overcome all the others, and return to the shore free and triumphant. It was by no fault of Hepburn's that the boat sped well away, that she was now alongside the tender dancing on the waves, now emptied of her crew, now hoisted up to her place. No fault of his, and yet it took him some time before he could reason himself into the belief that his mad, feverish wishes not an hour before, his wild prayer to be rid of his rival, as he himself had scrambled onward over the rocks alongside of King Ray's path on the sands, and not compelled the event. Anyhow, thoughty as he rose up, the prayer is granted, or God be thanked. Once more he looked out towards the ship. She had spread her beautiful great sails and was standing out to sea in the glittering path of the descending sun. He saw that he had been delayed on his road and had lingered long. He shook his stiffened limbs, shouldered his knapsack, and prepared to walk on to Hartlepool as swiftly as he could. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell Chapter 19 An Important Mission Philip was too late for the coach he had hoped to go by, but there was another that left at night, and which reached Newcastle on the forenoon, so that by the loss of a night's sleep he might overtake his lost time. But restless and miserable he could not stop in Hartlepool longer than to get some hasty food at the inn from which the coach started. He acquainted himself with the names of the towns through which it would pass, and the inns at which it would stop, and left word that the coachman was to be on the lookout for him and pick him up at some one of these places. He was thoroughly worn out before this happened, too much tired to gain any sleep in the coach. When he reached Newcastle he went to engage his passage at the next London-bound smack, and then directed his steps to Robinson's in the side, to make all the inquiries he could think of respecting the plow his uncle wanted to know about. So it was pretty late in the afternoon, indeed almost evening, before he arrived at the small inn on the key side where he intended to sleep. It was but a rough kind of place, frequented principally by sailors. He had been recommended to it by Daniel Robson, who had known it well in former days. The accommodation in it was, however, clean and homely, and the people keeping it were respectable enough in their way. Still Hepburn was rather repelled by the appearance of the sailors who sat drinking in the bar, and he asked in a low voice if there was not another room. The woman stared in surprise and only shook her head. Hepburn went to a separate table away from the roaring fire, which on this cold March evening was the great attraction, and called for food and drink. Then, seeing that the other men were eyeing him with the sociable idea of speaking to him, he asked for pen and ink and paper, with the intention of defeating their purpose by preoccupation on his part. But when the paper came, the new pen, the unused, thickened ink, he hesitated long before he began to write, and at last he slowly put down the words. Dear and honoured uncle. There was a pause. His meal was brought and hastily swallowed. Even while he was eating it, he kept occasionally touching up the letters of these words. When he had drunk a glass of ale, he began again to write, fluently this time, for he was giving an account of the plow. Then came another long stop. He was weighing in his own mind what he should say about Kinraid, once he thought for a second of writing to Sylvia herself, and telling her how much. She might treasure up her lover's words, like grains of gold, while they were lighter than dust in their meaning to Philip's mind. Words which, such as the spexionere, used as counters to beguile and lead astray silly women. It was for him to prove his constancy by action, and the chances of his giving such proof were infinitesimal in Philip's estimation. But should the latter mention the bare fact of Kinraid's impressment to Robson? That would have been the natural course of things, remembering that the last time Philip had seen either they were in each other's company. Twenty times he put his pen to the paper with the intention of relating briefly the event that had befallen Kinraid, and as often he stopped, as though the first word would be irrevocable. While thus he sat, pen in hand, thinking himself wiser than conscience, and looking on beyond the next step, which he bad him take into an indefinite future, he got some fragments of the sailor's talk at the other end of the room, which made him listen to their words. They were speaking of that very Kinraid, the thought of whom filled his own mind like an actual presence. In a rough, careless way they spoke of the speccionier, with admiration enough for his powers as a sailor and harpooner, and from that they passed on to jesting mention of his power amongst women, and one or two girls' names were spoken of in connection with him. Hepburn silently added Annie Coulson and Sylvia Robson to the list, and his cheeks turned paler as he did so. Long after they had done speaking about Kinraid, after they had paid their shot and gone away, he sat in the same attitude, thinking bitter thoughts. The people of the house prepared for bed. Their silent guest took no heed of their mute signs. At length the landlord spoke to him, and he started, gathered his wits together with an effort, and prepared to retire with the rest. But before he did so, he signed and directed the letter to his uncle, leaving it still open, however, in case some sudden feeling should prompt him to add a post-script. The landlord volunteered the information that the letter his guest had been writing must be posted early the next morning if it was going south, as the males in that direction only left Newcastle every other day. All night long, Hepburn wearied himself with passionate tossings, prompted by stinging recollections. Toward morning he fell into a dead sound sleep. He was roused by a hasty knocking at the door. It was broad, full daylight. He had overslept himself, and the smack was leaving by the early tide. He was even now summoned on board. He dressed, wafered his letter, and rushed with it to the neighbouring post-office, and without caring to touch the breakfast for which he paid, he embarked. Once on board he re-experienced the relief which it is always to an undecided man, and generally is at first to anyone who has been faltering with duty when circumstances decide for him. In the first case it is pleasant to be relieved from the burden of decision. In the second the responsibility seems to be shifted on to impersonal events. And so Philip sailed out of the mouth of the tine onto the great open sea. It would be a week before the smack reached London, even if she pursued a tolerably straight course. But she had to keep a sharp lookout after possible impressment of her crew, and it was not until after many dodges and some adventures that, at the end of a fortnight from the time of his leaving monks' haven, Philip found himself safely housed in London, and ready to begin the delicate piece of work which was given him to do. He felt himself fully capable of unraveling each clue to information, and deciding on the value of the knowledge so gained. But during the leisure of the voyage he had wisely determined to communicate everything he learnt about Dickinson, in short, every step he took in the matter, by letter to his employers, and thus his mind, both in and out of his lodgings, might have appeared to have been fully occupied with the concerns of others. But there were times when the miserable luxury of dwelling upon his own affairs was his, when he lay down in his bed till he fell into restless sleep, when the point to which his steps tended in his walks was ascertained. Then he gave himself up to memory, and regret which often deepened into despair, but seldom was cheered by hope. He grew so impatient of the ignorance in which he was kept, for in those days of heavy postage any correspondence he might have had on mere monk's haven intelligence was very limited, as to the affairs at Hater's Bank that he cut out an advertisement respecting some new kind of plow from a newspaper that lay in the chophouse where he usually dined, and rising early the next morning he employed the time thus gained in going round to the shop where these new plows were sold. That night he wrote another letter to Daniel Robson with a long account of the merits of the implements he had that day seen. With a sick heart and a hesitating hand he wound up with a message of regard to his aunt and to Sylvia, an expression of regard which he dared not make as warm as he wished, and which consequently fell below the usual mark attained by such messages, and would have appeared to anyone who cared to think about it as cold and formal. When this letter was dispatched Hepburn began to wonder what he had hoped for in writing it. He knew that Daniel could write, or rather that he could make strange hieroglyphics, the meaning of which puzzled others and often himself, but these pen and ink signs were seldom employed by Robson, and never so far as Philip knew for the purpose of letter writing. But still he craved so for news of Sylvia, even for a sight of paper which he had seen and perhaps touched, that he thought all his trouble about the plow, to say nothing of the one and twopence postage which he had prepaid in order to make sure of his letter's reception in the frugal household at Hater's Bank, well lost for the mere chance of his uncles caring enough for the intelligence to write and reply, or even to get some friend to write an answer. For in such case perhaps Philip might see her name mentioned in some way, even though it was only that she sent her duty to him. But the post office was dumb. No letter came from Daniel Robson. Philip heard it is true from his employers pretty frequently on business, and he felt sure they would have named it if any ill had befallen his uncle's family, for they knew of the relationship and of his intimacy there. They generally ended their formal letters with as formal a summary of the Munchshaven news, but there was never a mention of the Robsons, and that of itself was well, but it did not soothe Philip's impatient curiosity. He had never confided his attachment to his cousin to any one. It was not his way, but he sometimes thought that if Coulson had not taken his present appointment to a confidential piece of employment so ill, he could have written to him and asked him to go up to Hater's Bank farm and let him know how they all were. All this time he was transacting the affair on which he had been sent with great skill, and indeed in several ways he was quietly laying the foundation for enlarging the business in Munchshaven. Naturally graven quiet and slow to speak, he impressed those who saw him with the idea of greater age and experience than he really possessed. Indeed, those who encountered him in London thought he was absorbed in the business of money-making. Yet, before the time came when he could wind up affairs and return to Munchshaven, he would have given all he possessed for a letter from his uncle, telling him something about Sylvia, for he still hoped to hear from Robson, although he knew that he hoped against reason. But we often convince ourselves by good argument that what we wish for need never have been expected, and then at the end of our reasoning find that we might have saved ourselves the trouble, for that our wishes are untouched and are as strong enemies to our peace of mind as ever. Hepburn's balked hope was the mordecai sitting in Hammond's Gate. All his success and his errand to London, his well-doing in worldly affairs, was tasteless and gave him no pleasure because of this blank and void of all intelligence concerning Sylvia. And yet he came back with a letter from the fosters in his pocket, curt yet expressive of deep gratitude for his discreet services in London, and at another time, in fact, if Philip's life had been ordered differently to what it was, it might have given this man a not unworthy pleasure to remember that, without a penny of his own, simply by diligence, honesty, and faithful quick-sightedness as to the interest of his masters. He had risen to hold the promise of being their successor, and to be ranked by them as a trusted friend. As the new castle smack neared the shore on her voyage home, Hepburn looked wistfully out for the faint gray outline of Monk's Haven Priory against the sky and the well-known cliffs, as if the masses of inanimate stone could tell him any news of Sylvia. In the streets of Shields just after landing, he encountered a neighbour of the Robsons and an acquaintance of his own. By this honest man he was welcomed as a great traveller as welcomed on his return from a long voyage, with many hearty good-shakes of the hand, much repetition of kind wishes, and offers to treat him to drink. Yet, from some insurmountable feeling, Philip avoided all mention of the family who were the principal bond between the honest farmer and himself. He did not know why, but he could not bear the shock of first hearing her name in the open street or in the rough public house, and thus he shrank from the intelligence he craved to hear. Thus he knew no more about the Robsons when he returned to Monk's Haven than he had done on the day when he had last seen them, and, of course, his first task there was to give a long viva voce account of all his London proceedings to the two brothers' foster, who, considering that they had heard the result of everything by letter, seemed to take an insatiable interest in details. He could hardly tell why, but even when released from the foster's parlor, he was unwilling to go to Hater's Bank Farm. It was late, it is true, but on a May evening even country people keep up till later nine o'clock. Perhaps it was because Hepburn was still in his travel-stained dress, having gone straight to the shop on his arrival in Monk's Haven. Perhaps it was because, if he went this night for the short half-hour intervening before bedtime, he would have no excuse for paying a longer visit on the following evening. At any rate, he proceeded straight to Alice Rose's, as soon as he had finished his interview with his employers. Both Hester and Coulson had given him their welcome home in the shop, which they had, however, left an hour or two before him. Yet they gave him a fresh greeting, almost one in which surprise was blended when he came to his lodgings. Even Alice seemed gratified by his spending this first evening with them as if she had thought it might have been otherwise. Weary though he was, he exerted himself to talk and to relate what he had done and seen in London as far as he could without breaking confidence with his employers. It was something to see the pleasure he gave to his auditors, although there were several mixed feelings in their minds to produce the expression of which it gratified him. Coulson was sorry for his former ungenerous reception of the news that Philip was going to London. Hester and her mother each secretly began to feel as if this evening was like more happy evenings of old before the Robsons came to Hader's Bank Farm, and who knows what faint delicious hopes this resemblance may not have suggested. While Philip, restless and excited, feeling that he could not sleep, was glad to pass away the waking hours that must intervene before tomorrow night, at times he tried to make them talk of what had happened in Monkshaven during his absence, but all had gone on in an eventless manner as far as he could gather. If they knew of anything affecting the Robsons, they avoided speaking of it to him, and indeed, how little likely were they ever to have heard their names while he was away. Loved and Lost Philip walked towards the Robsons farm like a man in a dream, who has everything around him according to his wish, and yet is conscious of a secret, mysterious inevitable drawback to his enjoyment. Hepburn did not care to think would not realize what this drawback which need not have been mysterious in his case was. The May evening was glorious in light and shadow. The crimson sun warmed up the chilly northern air to a semblance of pleasant heat. The spring sights and sounds were all about. The lambs were bleating out their gentle weariness before they sank to rest by the side of their mothers. The linnets were chirping in every bush of golden gorse that grew out of the stone walls. The lark was singing her good night in the cloudless sky before she dropped down to her nest in the tender green wheat. All spoke of brooding peace, but Philip's heart was gnawed at peace. Yet he was going to proclaim his good fortune. His masters had that day publicly announced that Coulson and he were to be their successors, and he had now arrived at that longed forepoint in his business when he had resolved to openly speak of his love to Sylvia, and might openly strive to gain her love. But alas! the fulfilment of that wish of his had lagged sadly behind. He was placed as far as he could even in his most sanguine moments have hoped to be as regarded business, but Sylvia was as far from his attainment as ever. Nay, farther. Still the great obstacle was removed in Kinraith's impressment. Philip took upon himself to decide that, with such a man as the spexineer, absence was equivalent to faithless forgetfulness. He thought that he had just grounds for this decision in the account he had heard of Kinraith's behaviour to Annie Coulson, to the other nameless young girl, her successor in his fickle heart, in the ribbled talk of the sailors in the Newcastle Public House. It would be well for Sylvia if she could forget as quickly, and, to promote this oblivion, the name of her lover should never be brought up, either in praise or blame. And Philip would be patient and enduring, all the time watching over her, and laboring to win her reluctant love. There she was. He saw her as he stood at the top of the little hill-path leading down to the Robson's door. She was out of doors, in the garden, which at some distance from the house sloped up the bank on the opposite side of the gully, much too far off to be spoken to, not too far off to be gazed at by eyes that caressed her every movement. How well Philip knew that garden, placed long ago by some tenant of the farm on a southern slope, walled in with rough moorland stones, planted with berry bushes for use, and southern wood and sweetbriar for sweetness of smell. When the Robsons had first come to Hater's Bank, and Sylvia was scarcely more than a pretty child, how well he remembered helping her with the arrangement of this garden, laying out his few spare pence and hen and chicken daisies at one time, in flower-seeds at another, again in a rose-tree in a pot. He knew how his unaccustomed hands had labored with the spade at forming a little primitive bridge over the beck, in the hollow before winter streams should make it too deep for fording, how he had cut down branches of the mountain ash and covered them over, yet decked with their scarlet berries, with sods of green turf, beyond which the brilliancy crept out. But now it was months and years since he had been in that garden, which had lost its charm for Sylvia, as she found the bleak sea winds came up and blighted all endeavours at cultivating more than the most useful things—pot herbs, marigolds, potatoes, onions, and such like. Why did she tarry there now, standing quite motionless up by the highest bit of wall, looking over the sea, with her hand shading her eyes? Quite motionless, as if she were a stone statue. He began to wish she would move, would look at him, but any way that she would move and not stand gazing thus over that great dreary sea. He went down the path with an impatient step, and entered the house-place. There sat his aunt spinning, and apparently as well as ever. He could hear his uncle talking to Kester and the neighbouring shippen, all was well in the household. Why was Sylvia standing in the garden in that strange, quiet way? Why, lad, there at a sight for Sareen, said his aunt, as she stood up to welcome him back. And when didst you come, eh? But thy uncle be glad to see thee, and to hear thee talk about John Plows. He's thought a great deal of thy letters. I'll go call him in. Not yet, said Philip, stopping her and her progress towards the door. He's busy talking to Kester. I'm in no haste to be gone. I can stay a couple of hours. Sit down and tell me how you are yourself, and how everything is. I have a deal to tell you. To be sure, to be sure, to think those been in London since I saw thee, well, to be sure, there's a vast, a common, and goon in this world. Thou'll mind John Speck, senior lad, him as was cousin to Dacarnes. Charlie can rate. Mind him, as if he could forget him. Well, he's dead and gone. Dead? Who told you? I don't understand, said Philip in strange bewilderment. Could Kinraid have tried to escape after all, and been wounded, killed in the attempt? If not, how should they know he was dead? Missing he might be, though how this should be known was strange, as he was supposed to be sailing to the Greenland Seas. But dead, what did they mean? At Philip's worst moment of hatred, he had hardly dared to wish him dead. Do not you mention it afore our Sylvie, we never speak on him to her, for she takes it a deal to heart. Though I'm thinking it were a good thing for her, for he'd got a hold of her. He had on Bessie Corny too, as her mother told me. Not that I ever let on to them as Sylvia frets after him, so keep a calm so, my lad. It's a girl's fancy, just a kind of calf love. Let it go by. And it's well for her he's dead, though it's hard to say so on a drowned man. Drowned! said Philip. How do you know? Half hoping that the poor drenched, swollen body might have been found, and thus all questions and dilemmas solved. Kinraid might have struggled overboard with ropes or handcuffs on, and so have been drowned. Ay, lad, there's no misto to it. He were thought a deal on by T'Captain O'Tirania, and when he never come back on to-day when he ought to have shaled, he sent to Kinraid's people at colour-coats, and they sent to Brunton's in Newcastle, and they knew he'd been here. T'Captain put off sailing for two or three days that he might have had that much law, but when he heard as Kinraid were not at Cornys, but had left him almost on to a week, he went off to them northern seas with to next bex-speccionier he could find, for there's no use speaking ill on't dead, and though I couldn't have bear his coming for ever about the house, he were a rare good speccionier, as I've been told. But how do you know he was drowned? said Philip, feeling guiltily disappointed at his aunt's story. Why, lad, I'm almost ashamed to tell thee, I were sore put out, Macelle, but Sylvia were so broken-hearted like I couldn't cast it up to her as I couldn't have liked. The silly lass had gone and given him a bit of ribbon, as many a one note, for it had been a vast notice and admired that even at the Cornys. New Year's Eve, I think it were, and to poor vain Peacock had tied it on his hat, so that went to tide—ah, hissed, there's Sylvie coming into the back door, never let on. And in a forced made-up voice she inquired aloud, for hither too she'd been speaking almost in a whisper. And didst you see King George and Queen Charlotte? Philip could not answer, did not hear. His soul had gone out to meet Sylvia, who entered with quiet slowness quite unlike her former self. Her face was wan and white, her grey eyes seemed larger and full of dumb, tearless sorrow. She came up to Philip as if his being there had touched her with no surprise, and gave him a gentle greeting as if he were a familiar, indifferent person whom she had seen but yesterday. Philip, who had recollected the quarrel they had had, and about Kinraid, too, the very last time they had met, had expected some trace of this remembrance to linger in her looks and speech to him. But there was no such sign. Her great sorrow had wiped away all anger, almost all memory. Her mother looked at her anxiously, and then said in the same manner of forced cheerfulness which she had used before, Here's Philip, lass, a full alonon, call thy father in, and will hear about the new-fangled plows. It'll be a rare and nice sitting together again. Sylvia, silent and docile, went out to the ship and to obey her mother's wish. Bell robs and lent forward towards Philip, misinterpreting the expression on his face, which was guilt as much as sympathy, and shacked the possible repentance which might have urged him on at that moment to tell all he knew by saying, Lad, it's offered a best. He were known good enough for her, and I misdoubt me he were only playing with her as he'd done by others. Let her be, let her be. She'll come round to be thankful. Robson bustled in with a loud welcome, all the louder and more talkative because he, like his wife, assumed a cheerful manner before Sylvia. Yet he, unlike his wife, had many a secret regard over Kinraid's fate. At first, while merely the fact of his disappearance was known, Daniel Robson had hit on the truth, and had stuck to his opinion that the cursed press-gang were at the bottom of it. He had backed his words by many an oath, and all the more because he had not a single reason to give that applied to the present occasion. No one on the lonely coast had remarked any sign of the presence of the men of war, or the tenders that accompanied them, for the purpose of impressment on the king's ships. At shields and at the mouth of the tine, where they lay in greedy weight, the owners of the Orania had caused strict search to be made for their skilled and protected spexineer, but with no success. All this positive evidence and contradiction to Daniel Robson's opinion only made him cling to it the more, until the day when the hat was found on the shore with Kinraid's name, written out large and fair in the inside, and the tell-tale bit of ribbon knotted in the band. Then Daniel, by a sudden revulsion, gave up every hope. It never entered his mind that it could have fallen off by accident. No. Now Kinraid was dead and drowned, and it was a bad job, and the sooner it could be forgotten the better for all parties. And it was well no one knew how far it had gone with Sylvia, especially now since Bessie Corny was crying her eyes out as if he had been engaged to her. So Daniel said nothing to his wife about the mischief that had gone on in her absence, and never spoke to Sylvia about the affair, only he was more than usually tender to her in his rough way, and thought morning, noon, and night on what he could do to give her pleasure and drive away every recollection of her ill-starred love. Tonight he would have her sit by him while Philip told his stories, or heavily answered questions put to him. Sylvia sat on a stool by her father's knee, holding one of his hands and both of hers, and presently she laid down her head upon them, and Philip saw her sad eyes looking into the flickering firelight with a long, unwinking stare, showing that her thoughts were far distance. He could hardly go on with his tales of what he had seen and what done, he was so full of pity for her. Yet for all his pity he had now resolved never to soothe her with the knowledge of what he knew, nor to deliver the message sent by her false lover. He felt like a mother withholding something injurious from the foolish wish of her plaining child. But he went away without breathing a word of his good fortune and business. The telling of such kind of good fortune seemed out of place this night, when the thought of death and the loss of friends seemed to brood over the household, and cast its shadow there, obscuring for the time all worldly things. And so the great piece of news came out in the ordinary course of gossip, told by some monk's haven friend to Robbson the next market day. For months Philip had been looking forward to the sensation which the intelligence would produce in the farm household, as a preliminary to laying his good fortune at Sylvia's feet. And they heard of it, and he away, and all chance of his making use of it in the manner he had intended, vanished for the present. Daniel was always curious after other people's affairs, and now was more than ever bent on collecting scraps of news which might possibly interest Sylvia, and rouse her out of the state of indifference as to everything into which she had fallen. Perhaps he thought that he had not acted altogether wisely in allowing her to engage herself to kinrate, for he was a man apt to judge by results, and moreover he had had so much reason to repent of the encouragement which he had given to the lover whose untimely end had so deeply affected his only child, that he was more unwilling than ever that his wife should know of the length to which the affair had gone during her absence. He even urged secrecy upon Sylvia as a personal favour, unwilling to encounter the silent blame which he openly affected to despise. Will known fret thy mother by let an on how oft he came and went, shill may be befinking he were for speaking to thee, my poor lass, and it would put her out of deal, for she's a woman of stern mind towards matrimony, and she'll be known so strong till summer weather comes, and I'd be loath to give her art to word herself out, so thee and me'll keep our own counsel. I wish mother had been here, then she'd have known all without my telling her. Cheer up, lass! It's better as it is. Thou'll get o'er it sooner for having no one to let on to, how myself am known going to speak on to again. No more he did, but there was a strange tenderness in his tones when he spoke to her, a half-pathetic way of seeking after her, if by any chance she was absent for a minute from the places where he expected to find her, a consideration for her, about this time, in his way of bringing back trifling presents, or small pieces of news that he thought might interest her, which sank deep into her heart. And what don't you think, at a folks, is talking on Monkshaven? said he, almost before he had taken off his coat, on the day when he had heard of Philip's promotion in the world. Why, missus, thy nephew Philip Hepburn has got his name up in gold letters four-inch long, or Foster's door. Him and Coulson has set up shop together, and Foster's has gone out. That's the secret of his journey to London, said Belle, more gratified than she chose to show. Four-inch long, if there at all, I hear'd on it at the bay-horse first, but I thought you'd never be satisfied about I seed it with my own eyes. They do say as Gregory Jones, to plumber, got it done in York, for that note else would satisfy old Jeremiah. It'll be a matter of some hundreds a year of Philip's pocket. There'll be fosters in the background, as one may say, to take to bigger share to Prophet's," said Belle. Aye, aye, but that's as it should be, for I reckon they'll have to find the brass the first, my lass," said he, turning to Sylvia. I'm feigned to tuck thee into town to next market-day, just for to see it. I'll buy thee a bonny ribbon for thy hair out of the Cousin's own shop. Some thought of another ribbon which had once tied up her hair, and afterwards been cut in twain, must have crossed Sylvia's mind, for she answered as if she shrank from her father's words. I cannot go. I'm known wanton a ribbon. I'm much obliged father all the same. Her mother read her heart clearly, and suffered with her, but never spoke a word of sympathy. But she went on rather more quickly than she would otherwise have done to question her husband as to all he knew about this great rise of Philips. Once or twice Sylvia joined in with language curiosity, but presently she became tired and went to bed. For a few moments after she left her parents sat silent. Then Daniel, in a tone as if he were justifying his daughter, and comforting himself as well as his wife, observed that it was almost on for nine. The evenings were light so long now. Bell said nothing in reply, but gathered up her wool and began to arrange the things for night. By and by Daniel broke the silence by saying, A thought at one time as Philip had a fancy for our Sylvie? For a minute or two Bell did not speak. Then, with deeper insight into her daughter's heart than her husband, in spite of his greater knowledge of the events that had happened to affect it, she said, If those thinking on a match between them, it will be a long time before the poor sad wretch is fit to think on another man as sweetheart. A said note about sweet-arts, replied he, as if his wife had reproached him in some way. Woman's all is so full of sweet-arts and matrimony. I only said as a thought once as Philip had a fancy for our lass, and I think so still, until be worth his two-hunter year before long. But a never-said note about sweet-arts. There were many domestic arrangements to be made in connection with the new commercial ones which affected Hepburn and Coulson. The fosters, with something of the busy-bodiness which is apt to mingle itself with kindly patronage, had planned in their own minds that the rose household should be removed altogether to the house belonging to the shop, and that Alice, with the assistance of the capable servant, who at present managed all John's domestic affairs, should continue as mistress of the house, with Philip and Coulson for her lodgers. But arrangements without her consent did not suit Alice at any time, and she had very good reasons for declining to accede to this. She was not going to be uprooted at her time of life, she said, nor would she consent to enter upon a future which might be so uncertain. Why, Hepburn and Coulson were both young men, she said, and they were as likely to marry as not, and then the bride would be sure to wish to live in the good old-fashioned house at the back of the shop. It was in vain, she was told by every one concerned, that in the case of such an event the first married partner would take a house of his own, leaving her in undisputed possession. She replied, with apparent truth, that both might wish to marry, and surely the wife of one ought to take possession of the house belonging to the business, that she was not going to trust herself to the fancies of young men, who were always the best of them going and doing the very thing that was most foolish in the way of marriage, of which state, in fact, she spoke with something of acrimonious contempt and dislike, as if young people always got mismatched, yet had not the sense to let older and wiser people choose for them. Thou not have been understanding why Alice Rose spoke as she did this morning, said Jeremiah Foster to Philip, on the afternoon succeeding the final discussion of this plan. She was a thinking of her youth, I reckon, when she was a well-favoured young woman, and our John was full of the thought of marrying her. As he could not have her, he has lived a bachelor all his days, but if I am not a vast mistaken, all that he has will go to her and to Hester, for all that Hester is the child of another man. Thee and Coulson should have a try for Hester, Philip. I have told Coulson this day of Hester's chances. I told him first, because he is my wife's nephew, but I tell thee now, Philip, it would be a good thing for the shop if one of ye was married. Philip reddened. Often as the idea of marriage had come into his mind, this was the first time it had been gravely suggested to him by another, but he replied quietly enough. I don't think Hester Rose has any thought of matrimony. To be sure not. It is for Thee or for William Coulson to make her think. She may be remembers enough of her mother's life with her father to make her slow to think on such things, but it's in her to think on matrimony, it's in all of us. Alice's husband was dead before I knew her, said Philip, rather evading the main subject. It was a mercy when he were taken, a mercy to them who were left, I mean. Alice was a bonny young woman, with a smile for every body, when he wed her, a smile for every one except our John, who could never do enough to try and win one from her. But no, she would have none of him, but set her heart on Jack Rose, a sailor in a whale-ship. And so they were married at last, though all her own folks were against it, and he was a profligate sinner, and went after other women, and drank and beat her. She turned as stiff and as gray as thou seized her now without a year of Hester's birth. I believe they'd have perished for want and cold many a time if it had not been for John. If she ever guessed where the money came from, it must have hurt her pride above a bit, for she was always a proud woman. But mother's love is stronger than pride, Philip felt to thinking. A generation ago something of the same kind had been going on as that which he was now living through, quick with hopes and fears. A girl beloved by two. Nay, those two so identical in occupation as he and Kin Raid were, rose identical even in character with what he knew of this Buccaneer, a girl choosing the wrong lover, and suffering and soured all her life in consequence of her youth's mistake. Was that to be Sylvia's lot? Or rather was she not saved from it by the event of the impressement, and by the course of silence he himself had resolved upon? Then he went on to wonder if the lives of one generation were but a repetition of the lives of those who had gone before, with no variation but from the internal cause that some had greater capacity for suffering than others. With those very circumstances which make the interest of his life now, return and do cycle when he was dead and Sylvia was forgotten. Proplexed thoughts of this and a similar kind kept returning into Philip's mind whenever he had leisure to give himself up to consideration, of anything but the immediate throng of business, and every time he dwelt upon this complication and succession of similar events, he emerged from his reverie more and more satisfied with the course he had taken in withholding from Sylvia all knowledge of her lover's fate. It was settled at length that Philip was to remove to the house belonging to the shop, Coulson remaining with Alice and her daughter, but in the course of the summer the latter told his partner that he had offered marriage to Hester on the previous day and been refused. It was an awkward affair together, as he lived in their house, and was in daily companionship with Hester, who, however, seemed to reserve her gentle calmness with only a tinge more of reserve in her manner to Coulson. I wish you could find out what she has again, me Philip," said Coulson, about a fortnight after he had made the proposal. The poor young man thought that Hester's composure of manner towards him since the event argued that he was not distasteful to her, and as he was now on very happy terms with Philip, he came constantly to him, as if the latter could interpret the meaning of all the little occurrences between him and his beloved. I'm a right age, not two months betwixt us, and there's few in Monk's Haven as would think on her with better prospects than me, and she knows my folks, who are kind of cousins, in fact, and I'd be like a son to her mother, and there's no in Monk's Haven as can speak again my character. There's no between you and her, is there, Philip? I had told thee many a time that she and me is like brother and sister. She's no more thought on me than I have for her, so be content with, for I is not tell thee again. Don't be vexed, Philip, if thou knew what it was to be in love, thou'd be always fancying things just as I am. I might be," said Philip, but I don't think I should always be talking about my fancies. I won't talk any more after this once, if thou'd just find out for the sell, as it were, what it is she has again me. I'd go to chapel for ever with her, if that's what she wants, just ask her, Philip. It's an awkward thing for me to be mellin' with," said Hepburn reluctantly. But thou said thee and she were like brother and sister, and a brother would ask a sister and never think twice about it. Well, well," replied Philip, I'll see what I can do. But lad, I don't think she'll have thee. She doesn't fancy thee, and fancy is three parts of love, if reason is tether forth. But somehow Philip could not bekin' on the subject with Hester. He did not know why, except that, as he said, it was so awkward. But he really liked Coulson so much as to be anxious to do what the latter wished, although he was almost convinced that it would be of no use. So he watched his opportunity, and found Alice alone, and at leisure one Sunday evening. She was sitting by the window, reading her Bible when he went in. She gave him a curt welcome, heartily enough for her, for she was always chairing her expressions of pleasure or satisfaction. But as she took off her horned spectacles, and placed them in the book to keep her place, and then turning more fully round on her chair so as to face him, she said. Well, lad, and how does it go on? Though it's not a day for to ask about worldly things, but I never see thee now but on Sabbath day, and rarely then. Still we won't speak of such things unto Lord's day. So thee one just say how to shop is doing, and then we'll leave such vain talk. The shop is doing main and well, thank ye, mother. But Coulson could tell you that any day. I had a deal rather here for thee, Philip. Coulson doesn't know how to manage his own business, let alone half the business as it took John and Jeremiah's heads, I entast him, too, to manage, of no patience with Coulson. Why? He's a decent young fellow as ever there is in Monkshaven. He may be. He is known cut his wisdom teeth yet. But for that matter there's other folks as far for sense as he is. I, and farther, Coulson may't be so bright at all times as he might be, but he's a steady goer, and I'd back him up again in each half of his age in Monkshaven. I know who I'd sooner back in many a thing, Philip. She said it with so much meaning that he could not fail to understand that he himself was meant, and he replied, ingenuously enough, If you mean me, mother, I'll known deny that in a thing or two I may be more knowledgeable than Coulson. I've had a deal of time on my hands and my youth, and I'd good schooling as long as father lived. Lad, it's not schooling, nor knowledge, nor book-learning as carries a man through its world. It's mother-wit, and it's known schooling, nor knowledge, nor book-learning as takes a young woman. It's somat as cannot be put into words. That's just what I told Coulson, said Philip quickly. He were sore put about because Hester had given him the booket, and came to me about it. And what did thou say? asked Alice, her deep eyes gleaming at him as if to read his face as well as his words. Philip, thinking he could now do what Coulson had begged of him in the neatest manner, went on. I told him I'd help him all as I could. Thou did did thou? Well, well, there's not sequerous folks, that I will say," muttered Alice between her teeth. But that fancy had three parts to do with love, continued Philip, and it would be hard maybe to get a reason for her not fancying him. And I wish she'd think twice about it. He so set upon having her, I think he'll do himself a mischief of fretting if it goes on as it is. It'll known go on as it is," said Alice, with gloomy irraculerness. How not? asked Philip, then receiving no answer he went on. He loosed her true, seated in a month or two on her age, and his character would bear handling on all sides, and a share on shop would be worth hundreds a year before long. Another pause. Alice was trying to bring down her pride to say something which she could not with all her efforts. "'Maybe you'll speak a word for a mother,' said Philip, annoyed at her silence. "'I'll do no such thing. Marriages are best made without melling. How do I know but what she likes some one better?' Our Hester is not the last to think on a young man unless he's been a wooing on her. And you know mother as well as I do. And Colson does, too. She's never given any one a chance to woo her, living half her time here and to other half and shop, and never speaking to no one by to way. I wish thou wouldn't come here a troubling me on a sabbath day with thy vanity and thy worldly talk. I'd leave her by far via that world where there's neither marrying nor giving in marriage, for it's all a moitering mess here." She turned to the closed Bible lying on the dresser, and opened it with a bang. While she was adjusting her spectacles on her nose, with hands trembling with passion, she heard Philip say, "'I ask your pardon, I'm sure. I couldn't welcome any other day.' "'It's all the same. I care not. But thou might as well tell truth. I'll be bound thou'st been at Hater's Bank Farm some day this week.' Philip reddened. In fact he had forgotten how he had got to consider his frequent visits to the farm as a regular piece of occupation. He kept silence. Alice looked at him with a sharp intelligence that read his silence through. "'I thought so. Next time thou thinkst to thyself, I'm more knowledgeable than Coulson. Just remember Alice Rose's words, and they are these. If Coulson's too thick-sighted to see through a board, thou art too blind to see through a window. As for coming and speaking up for Coulson, why, he'll be married to some one else of forty years out, for all he thinks he so set upon Hester know. Go thy ways, and leave me to my scripture, and come no more unsabath days with thy vain babbling.' So Philip returned from his mission rather crestfallen, but quite as far as ever from seeing through a glass window. Before the year was out, Alice's prophecy was fulfilled. Coulson, who found the position of a rejected lover in the same house with the girl who had refused him, too uncomfortable to be endured, as soon as he was convinced that his object was decidedly out of his reach, turned his attention to some one else. He did not love his new sweetheart as he had done Hester, there was more of reason and less of fancy in his attachment. But it ended successfully, and before the first snow fell Philip was best man at his partner's wedding. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell Chapter 22 Deepening Shadows But before Coulson was married, many small events happened. Small events to all but Philip. To him they were as the sun and moon, the days when he went up to Hatersbank and Sylvia spoke to him, the days when he went up and she had apparently no heart to speak to any one, but left the room as soon as he came, or never entered it at all, although she must have known that he was there. These were his alternations from happiness to sorrow. From her parents he always had a welcome. Oppressed by their daughter's depression of spirits they hailed the coming of any visitor as a change for her as well as for themselves. The former intimacy with the Cornies was an abeyance for all parties, owing to Bessie Cornies' outspoken grief for the loss of her cousin, as if she had a reason to look upon him as her lover, whereas Sylvia's parents felt that this is a slur upon their daughter's cause of grief. But although at this time the members of the two families ceased to seek after each other's society, nothing was said. The threat of friendship might be joined afresh at any time, only just now it was broken, and Philip was glad of it. Before going to Hatersbank he sought each time for some little present, with which to make his coming welcome, and now he wished even more than ever that Sylvia had cared for learning. If she had he could have taken her many a pretty ballad or storybook, such as we then invoke, he did try her with the translation of the Sorrows of Wither, so popular at the time that it had a place in all Petalers' baskets, with Law's serious call, the Pilgrim's Progress, Klopstock's Messiah, and Paradise Lost, but she could not read it for herself. And after turning the leaves languidly over, and smiling a little at the picture of Charlotte cutting bread and butter in a left-handed manner, she put it aside on the shelf by the complete farrier. And there Philip saw it, upside down and untouched, the next time he came to the farm. Many a time during that summer did he turn to the few verses in Genesis, in which Jacobs' twice-seven-year service for Rachel is related, and try and take fresh heart from the reward which came to the patriarch's constancy at last. After trying books, nose-gaze, small presents of pretty articles of dress, such as suited the notions of those days, and finding them all received with the same languid gratitude, he set himself to endeavour to please her in some other way. It was time that he should change his tactics, for the girl was becoming weary of the necessity for thanking him every time he came for some little favour or other. She wished he would let her alone, and not watch her continually with such sad eyes. Her father and mother hailed her first signs of impatient petulance towards him as a return to the old state of things, before Kinraid had come to disturb the tenor of their lives, for even Daniel had turned against the spectrener, irritated by the corny's loud moans of the loss of the man to whom their daughter said that she was attached. If Daniel wished for him to be alive again, it was mainly that the corny's might be convinced that his last visit to the neighbourhood of Munchhaven was for the sake of the pale and silent Sylvia, and not for that of Bessie, who complained of Kinraid's unturned death, rather as if by it she had been cheated of her husband, than for any overwhelming personal love towards the deceased. If he were after her, he were a big black scoundrel. That's what he were, and I wish he were alive again to be hung. But I don't believe it. Them corny lasses were always talking and are thinking on sweethearts, never a man crossed threshold, but they tried on one as a husband. Their mother were no better. Kinraid had spoken civil to Bessie as became a lad to a lass, and she makes an adieu over him as if they'd been to church together not a week's in. I don't uphold corny's, but molly corny, as is molly Bruntman now, used to speak on this dead man to our Sylvia, as if he were a sweetheart and old daze. Now there's no smoke without fire, and I'm thinking it's likely enough he were one of them fellows, as is always after some lass or another, and as often as not do offering at time. Now look at Philip, what a different one he is. He's never thought on a woman, but our Sylvia will be bound. I wish he weren't so old fashioned and faint-hearted. My aunt's shop's doing a master business, I would say. He's a deal better company too than he used to be. He'd away preaching when he was couldn't abide. But now he tacks his glass and holds his tongue, leaving room for wiser men to sail her say. Search was a conjugal colloquy about this time. Philip was gaining ground with Daniel, and that was something toward winning Sylvia's heart, for she was unaware of her farthest change of feeling towards Kinraid, and took all his tenderness towards herself, as if they were mocks of his regard for her lost lover, and his sympathy in her loss, instead of which she was rather feeling as if it might be a good thing, after all, that the fickle-hearted sailor was dead and drowned. In fact, Daniel was very like a child in all the parts of his character. He was strongly affected by whatever was present, an app to forget the absent. He acted on impulse, and too often had reason to be sorry for it. But he hated his sorrow too much to let it teach him wisdom for the future. With all his many faults, however, he had something in him which made him be dearly loved, both by the daughter whom he indulged, and the wife who was in fact superior to him, but whom he imagined that he ruled, with a wise and absolute sway. Love to Sylvia gave Philip tact. He seemed to find out that to please the women of the threshold, he must pay all possible attention to the man, and though he cared little in comparison for Daniel, yet this autumn he was continually thinking of how he could please him. When he had said or done anything to gratify and use the father, Sylvia smiled and was kind. Whatever he did was right with his aunt, but even she was unusually glad when her husband was pleased. Still, his progress was slow towards his object, and often he sighed himself to sleep with the words, seven years, and maybe seven years more. Then in his dreams he saw Kinraid again, sometimes struggling, sometimes sailing towards land, the only one on board a swift advancing ship, alone on deck, stern and avenging, till Philip awoke in remorseful terror. Such and similar dreams returned with the greater frequency when, in the November of that year, the coast between Hartlepool and Munch's Avon was overshadowed by the presence of guard ships, driven south from their station at North Shields, by the resolution which the sailors of that port had entered into to resist the Prescan, and the energy with which they had begun to carry out their determination. Four, on a certain Tuesday evening, yet remembered by old inhabitants of North Shields, the sailors in the merchant service met together and overpowered the Prescan, dismissing them from the town with the highest contempt, and with their jackets reversed. A numerous mob went with them to Chirton Bar, gave them three cheers at parting, but vowed to tear them limb from limb, should they seek to re-enter North Shields. But a few days afterwards some fresh cause of irritation arose, and five hundred sailors, armed with such swords and pistols as they could collect, paraded through the town in the most righteous manner, and at last attempted to seize the tender Eleanor on some pretext of the ill treatment of the impressed men aboard. This endeavour failed, however, owing to the energetic conduct of the officers in command. Next day this body of sailor set off for Newcastle, but learning before they reached the town that there was a strong military and civil force prepared to receive them there, they dispersed for the time. But not before the good citizens had received a great fright, the drums of the North Yorkshire militia beating to arms, and the terrified people rushing out into the streets to learn the reason of the alarm, and some of them seeing the militia under the command of the old of Falkenburg, marching from the guard house adjoining Newgate to the house of rendezvous for impressed seamen in the broad chase. But, a few weeks after, the impressed men's service took their revenge for the insults they had been subjected to in North Shields. In the dead of night, a cordon was formed round that town by a regiment stationed at Tynemouth Barracks. The press gangs belonging to armed vessels lying off Shields Harbour were let loose. No one within the circle could escape, and upwards of two hundred and fifty men, sailors, mechanics, labourers of every description, were forced on board the armed ships. With that prize they set sail, and wisely left the place where deep passionate vengeance was sworn against them. Not all the dread of an invasion by the French could reconcile the people of these coasts to the necessity of impressment. Fear and confusion prevailed after this to within many miles of the seashore. The Yorkshire gentleman of rank said that his labourers dispersed like a curvy of birds because a press gang was reported to have established itself so far inland as Tadcaster, and they only returned to work on the assurance from the steward of his master's protection, but even then begged leave to sleep on straw in the stables or outhouses belonging to the landlord, not daring to sleep at their own homes. No fish was caught, for the fisherman dared not venture out to sea. The markets were deserted, as the press gangs might come down on any gathering of men. Prices were raised, and many were impoverished. Many others ruined. For in the great struggle in which England was then involved, the navy was esteemed her safeguard, and men must be had at any price of money or suffering or of injustice. Landsmen were kidnapped and taken to London, there in too many instances to be discharged without redress and penniless because they were discovered to be useless for the purpose for which they had been taken. Orton brought back the whaling ships, but the period of their return was full of gloomy anxiety instead of its being the annual time of rejoicing and feasting of gladdened households where brave, steady husbands or sons return of unlimited and reckless expenditure and boisterous joviality among those who thought that they had earned unbounded license on shore by their six months of compelled abstinence. In other years, this had been the time for new and handsome winter clothing, for cheerful if humble hospitality, for the shopkeepers to display their gayest and best, for the public houses to be crowded, for the streets to be full of blue jackets rolling along with merry words and open hearts. In other years, the boiling houses had been full of active workers, the stades crowded with barrels, the ship carpenter's yards thronged with the seamen and captains. Now a few men, tempted by high wages, went stealthily by back lanes to their work, clustering together with sinister looks, glancing round corners and fearful of every approaching footstep as if they were going on some unlawful business instead of true honest work. Most of them kept their whaling knives about and ready for bloody defense if they were attacked. The shops were almost deserted. There was no unnecessary expenditure by the men. They did not venture out to buy lavish presents for the wife or sweetheart or little children. The public houses kept scouts on the lookout, while fierce men drank and swore depolds of vengeance in the bar. Men who did not mourn their in their cups nor grow foolishly merry, but in whom liquor called forth all the desperate bad passions of human nature. Indeed, all along the coast of Yorkshire, it seemed as if a blight hung over the land and the people. Men dodged about their daily business with hatred and suspicion in their eyes, and many a curse went over the sea to the three fatal ships lying motionless at anchor three miles off Munchhaven. When first Philip had heard in his shop that these three men of war might be seen lying felons still on the grey horizon, his hearts sank, and he scarcely dared to ask their names. For if one should be the Alcestis, if Kin Rage should send word to Sylvia, if he should say he was living and loving and faithful, if it should come to pass that the fact of the undelivered message sent by her lover through Philip should reach Sylvia's ears, what would be the position of the latter not merely in her love, that of course would be hopeless, but in her esteem. All sophistry vanished, the fear of detection awakened Philip to a sense of guilt, and besides he found out that in spite of all idle talk and callous slander he could not help believing that Kin Rage was in terrible earnest when he uttered those passionate words and entreated that they might be born to Sylvia. Some instinct told Philip that if the spectre near had only flirted with too many, yet that for Sylvia Robinson his love was true and vehement, then Philip tried to convince himself that, from all that was said of his previous character, Kin Rage was not capable of an enduring constant attachment, and with such poor opiate to his consciousness as he could obtain from this notion, Philip was obliged to remain content. Until, a day or two after the first intelligence for the presence of those three ships, he learned, with some trouble and pains, that their names were the Mega-Era, the Balera-Fam, and the Hanover. Then he began to perceive how unlikely it was that the Alcestis should have been lingering on this shore all this many months. She was, doubtless, gone far away by this time. She had probably joined the fleet on the war station. Who could tell what had become of her and her crew? She might have been in battle before now, and if so, so his previous fancies shrank to nothing, rebuked for their improbability, and with them vanished his self-reproach. Yet there were times when the popular attention seemed totally absorbed by the dread of the press-gun, when no other subject was talked about, hardly, in fact, thought about. At such flows of panic, Philip had his own private fears, lest a flash of light should come upon Sylvia, and she should suddenly see that Kinray's absence might be accounted for in another way besides death. But when he reasoned, this seemed unlikely. No one of war had been seen off the coast, or, if seen, had never been spoken about at the time of Kinray's disappearance. If he had vanished this winter time, everyone would have been convinced that the press-gun had seized upon him. Philip had never heard anyone breathe the dread name of the Alcestors. Besides, he went on to think, at the farm they are out of hearing of this one great weary subject of talk. But it was not so, as he became convinced one evening. His aunt caught him a little aside while Sylvia was in the dairy, and her husband talking in the shipment with Kester. For good sake, Philip, don't bring the talk about press-gang. It's a thing as he got old on me most until thou'd think he possessed. He's speaking perpetual on it in such a way that thou'd think he was itching to kill him before he tasted bread again. He really trembles with rage and passion, and a night is just as bad. He starts up his sleep swearing and cursing him, tell him sometimes afraid he'll make an enemy of his stake. And what money do, last night, burping out on Charlie Kin Raid, and tell Sylvia he thought Mapint's gang had got old on him. Might make a cry of sought tears o'er again. Philip spoke by no wish of his own, but as if compelled to speak. And who knows but what is true? The instant these words had come out of his lips, he could have bitten his tongue off, and yet afterwards it was a sort of balm to his conscience that he had so spoken. What nonsense, Philip, said his aunt, why, there's fearsome ships far outside when he went away. He'd go in, and Sylvia just getting o'er trouble so nicely, and even my master went on for to say if he'd gone old of him, he were not a chap to stay with him, either give proofs on his hatred to him time on. Yeah, they are made off, and then sure enough we would have o'er'd on him somehow. Then Corniz is full on him still, and made the deal to his folk beyond Newcastle. Rosmer Master says he were just chapped to hang o'er drown himself, soon another o'er against his will. What did Sylvia say? Asked Philip in a hoarse, low voice. Say, why, all she could do was burst out crying. And after a bit she just repeated a fader's words, and said anyhow he was dead for he'd never lived to go to see where Presganne. She'd owed him too well for that. Thou see, she thinks to deal on him for a spirited chap. He can do what he will. I believe me, she first began to think on him time at fright aboard the good fortune when Daly were killed, and he would seem tame-like to her if he couldn't conquer Presgannes and men o'er. She soon o'er think on him drown, but she's near to see him again. Best so, said Philip, and then to come is unusually excited on. He promised to avoid the subject of the Presganne as much as possible, but it was a promise very difficult of performance for Daniel Robson was, as his wife said, like one possessed. He could hardly think of anything else, though he himself was occasionally weary of the same constantly recurring idea and would feign have banished it from his mind. He was too old a man to be likely to be taken by them. He had no son to become their victim, but the terror of them, which he had braved and defied in his youth seemed to come back and take possession of him in his age, and with the terror came impatient hatred. Since his wife's illness the previous winter, he had been a more sober man until now. He was never exactly drunk, for he had a strong well-seasoned head, but the craving to hear the last news of the actions of the Presganne drew him into Munchhaven nearly every day at this dead agricultural season of the year, and the public houses generally the focus from which gossip radiates, and probably the amount of drink thus consumed weak on Robson's power over his mind and caused the concentration of thought on one subject. This may be a physiological explanation of what afterwards was spoken of as a supernatural kind of possession leading him to his doom. End of Chapter 22 read by Kate McKenzie. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell Chapter 23 Retaliation The public house that had been chosen by the leaders of the Presganne and Munchhaven at this time for their rendezvous or randy vows as it was generally pronounced was an inn of poor repute with a yard at the back which opened onto the stay their key nearest to the open sea. A strong high stone wall bounded this grass-grown moldy yard on two sides. The house and some unused outbuildings formed the other two. The choice of the place was good enough both as to situation which was sufficiently isolated and yet near to the widening river and as to the character of the landlord. John Hobbes was a failing man one who seemed as if doomed to be unfortunate in all his undertakings and the consequence of all this was that he was envious of the more prosperous and willing to do anything that might bring him in a little present success in life. His household consisted of his wife, her niece, who had acted as servant and an out-of-doors man, a brother of Ned Simpson, the well-doing butcher who at one time had had a fancy for Sylvia. But the one brother was prosperous, the other had gone on sinking in life like him who was now his master. Neither Hobbes nor his man Simpson were absolutely bad men. If things had gone well with them they might each have been as scrupulous and conscientious as their neighbors and even now supposing the gain in money to be equal they would sooner have done good than evil but a very small sum was enough to turn the balance and in a greater degree than in most cases was the famous maxim of Rochefoucault true with them for in the misfortunes of their friends they seemed to see some justification of their own. It was blind fate dealing out events not that the events themselves were the inevitable consequences of folly or misconduct. To such men as these the large sum offered by the lieutenant of the press gang for the accommodation of the mariner's arms was simply and immediately irresistible. The best room in the dilapidated house was put at the service of the commanding officer of the impress service and all other arrangements made at his desire irrespective of all the former unprofitable sources of custom and of business. If the relatives both of Hobbes and of Simpson had not been so well known and so prosperous in the town they themselves would have received more marks of popular ill opinion than they did during the winter the events of which are now being recorded. As it was people spoke to them when they appeared at Kirk or at Market but held no conversation with them. No, not although they each appeared better dressed than they had either of them done for years past and although their whole manner showed a change in as much as they had been formerly snarling and misanthropic and were now civil almost to deprecation. Everyone who was capable of understanding the state of feeling in Monkshaven at this time must have been aware that at any moment an explosion might take place and probably there were those who had judgment enough to be surprised that it did not take place sooner than it did. For until February there were only occasional cries and growls of rage as the press gang made their captures first here then there often apparently tranquil for days then heard of at some distance along the coast then carrying off a seaman from the very heart of the town they seemed afraid of provoking any general hostility such as that which had driven them from shields and would have conciliated the inhabitants if they could. The officers on the service and on board the three men of war coming often into the town spending largely talking to all with cheery friendliness and making themselves very popular in such society as they could obtain access to at the houses of the neighbouring magistrates or at the rectory. But this however agreeable did not forward the object the impress service had in view. And accordingly a more decided step was taken at a time when although there was no apparent evidence as to the fact the town was full of the Greenland mariners coming quietly in to renew their yearly engagements which, when done would legally entitle them to protection from impressment. One night it was on a Saturday February 23rd when there was a bitter black frost with a northeast wind sweeping through the streets and men and women were close shut in their houses all were startled in their household content and warmth by the sound of the fire bell busily swinging and peeling out for help. The fire bell was kept in the market house where high street and bridge street met. Everyone knew what it meant some dwelling or maybe a boiling house was on fire and neighborly assistance was summoned with all speed in a town where no water was laid on nor fire engines kept in readiness. Men snatched up their hats and rushed out wives following some with the readiness wraps they could lay hands on with which to clothe the overhasty husbands others from that mixture of dread and curiosity which draws people to the scene of any disaster. Those of the market people who were making the best of their way homewards having waited in the town till the early darkness concealed their path turned back at the sound of the ever clanging fire bell ringing out faster and faster as if the danger became every instant more pressing. As men ran against her alongside of each other their breathless question was ever where is it and no one could tell. So they pressed onwards into the marketplace sure of obtaining the information desired there where the fire bell kept calling out with its furious metal tongue. The dull oil lamps in the adjoining streets only made darkness visible in the thronged marketplace where the buzz of many men's unanswered questions was rising louder and louder. A strange feeling of dread crept over those nearest to the closed market house. Above them in the air the bell was still clanging but before them was a door fast shut and locked. No one to speak and tell them why they were summoned where they ought to be. They were at the heart of the mystery and it was a silent blank. Their unformed dread took shape at the cry from the outside of the crowd from where men were still coming down the eastern side of bridge street. The gang! The gang! shrieked out someone. The gang are upon us! Help! Help! Then the fire bell had been a decoy a sort of seething the kid in its mother's milk leading men into a snare through their kindliest feelings. Some dull sense of this added to utter dismay and made them struggle and strain to get to all the outlets save that in which a fight was now going on. The swish of heavy whips the thud of bludgeons the groans the growls of wounded or infuriated men coming with terrible distinctness through the darkness to the quickened ear of fear. A breathless group rushed up the blackness of a narrow entry to stand still a while and recover strength for fresh running. For a time nothing but heavy pants and gats were heard among them. No one knew his neighbor and their good feeling so lately abused and preyed upon made them full of suspicion. The first who spoke was recognized by his voice. Is it the Daniel Robson asked his neighbor in a low tone? I, who else should it be? I don't know. If I am to be anyone else I'd like to be a chap of no but eight stone I'm well done for. It were as bloody a shame as ever I hear'd on. Who's to go to to next fire I'd like to know. I'll tell you what Ladd said Daniel recovering his breath but speaking in gasps. We were a pack of cowards to let him carry off young chaps as easy as they did on reckoning. I think so indeed said another voice. Daniel went on. We was too hunter if we was a man and Tegeng has never numbered above twelve. But they was armed a scene to glitter in their cutlasses spoke out of fresh voice. What then? replied he who had latest come and who stood at the mouth of the entry. I had my whale and knife with me in my P-jacket as my Mrs. threw at me and I'd have ripped him up as soon as winkin if I could have thought what was best to do with that damned bell makin such a dinery to both us. A man can but die once and we was ready to go into to fire for to save folks's lives and yet we'd none on us to wit to see as we might have saved young poor chaps as screeched out for help. They'll had get them to to Randy vows by now said someone. They cannot take them aboard till morning to Tide won't serve said the last speaker but one. Daniel Robson spoke out the thought that was surging up into the brain of everyone there. There's a chance for us ah how many be we by dint of touching each other. The numbers were counted. Seven. Seven. But if us seven turns out and rouses to town there'll be many a score ready to gang to mariner's arms and it'll be easy work rescue him them chaps as his pressed. Us seven each man jack on us go and seek up his friends and get him as well as he can to the church steps. Then maybe there'll be some there as will not be as soft as we was letting them poor chaps be carried off from under our noses just because our ears was busy listening to young confounded bell whose clip clap and tongue I'll tear out a four this week is out. Before Daniel had finished speaking those nearest to the entrance muttered their assent to his project and had stolen off keeping to the darkest side of the streets and lanes which they threaded in different directions most of them going straight as sleuth hounds to the haunts of the wildest and most desperate portion of the seafaring population of Monkshaven for in the breasts of many revenge for the misery and alarm of the past winter took a deeper and more ferocious form than Daniel had thought of when he made his proposal of a rescue. To him it was an adventure like many he had been engaged in in his younger days. Indeed the liquor he had drunk had given him a fictitious youth for the time and it was more in the light of a rough frolic of which he was to be the leader that he limped along always lame from old attacks of rheumatism chuckling to himself at the apparent stillness of the town which gave no warning to the press gang at the rendezvous of anything in the wind. Daniel too had his friends to summon old hands like himself but deepens also like himself as he imagined. It was nine o'clock when all who were summoned met at the church steps and by nine o'clock Monkshaven in those days was more quiet and asleep than many a town at present is at midnight. The church and church yard above them were flooded with silver light for the moon was high in the heavens the irregular steps were here and there in pure white clearness here and there in blackest shadow but more than halfway up to the top men clustered like bees all pressing so as to be near enough to question those who stood near us to the planning of the attack here and there a woman with wild gestures and shrill voice that no entreaty would hush down to the whispered pitch of the men pushed her way through the crowd this one imploring immediate action that adjuring those around her to smite and spare not those who had carried off her man the father the breadwinner low down in the dark and silent town where many whose hearts went with the angry and excited crowd and who would bless them and caress them for that night's deeds daniel soon found himself a laggard in planning compared to some of those around him but when with the rushing sound of many steps and but few words they had arrived at the blank dark shut up mariners arms they paused in surprise at the uninhabited look of the whole house it was daniel once more who took the lead speak him fair said he try good words first hobzl maybe let him out quiet if we can catch a word with him i say hobz said he raising his voice is our shut up for sanit for i'd be glad of a glass i'm daniel robbs and thou knows not one word in reply any more than from the tomb but his speech had been heard nevertheless the crowd behind him began to jeer and to threaten there was no longer any keeping down their voices their rage their terrible oaths if doors and windows had not of late been strengthened with bars of iron in anticipation of some such occasion they would have been broken in with the onset of the fierce and now yelling crowd who rushed against them with the force of a battering ram to recoil and baffled rage from the vain assault no sign no sound from within in that breathless pause come away around here i found a way to tobacco behind whereby like it's not so well fenced said daniel who had made way for younger and more powerful men to conduct the assault and had employed his time meanwhile in examining the back premises the men rushed after him almost knocking him down as he made his way into the lane into which the doors of the outbuildings belonging to the inn opened daniel had already broken the fastening of that which opened into a damp moldy smelling shipping in one corner of which a poor lean cow shifted herself on her legs in an uneasy restless manner as her sleeping place was invaded by as many men as could cram themselves into the dark hold daniel at the end farthest from the door was almost smothered before he could break down the rotten wooden shutter that when opened displayed the weedy yard of the old inn the full clear light defining the outline of each blade of grass by the delicate black shadow behind this hole used to give air and light to what had once been a stable in the days when horse travelers were in the habit of coming to the mariner's arms was large enough to admit the passage of a man and daniel in virtue of its discovery was the first to get through but he was larger and heavier than he had been his lameness made him less agile and the impatient crowd behind him gave him a helping push that sent him down on the round stones with which the yard was paved and for the time disabled him so much that he could only just crawl out of the way of leaping feet and heavy nailed boots which came through the opening till the yard was filled with men who now set up a fierce derisive shout which to their delight was answered from within no more silence no more dead opposition a living struggle a glowing raging fight and daniel thought he should be obliged to sit there still leaning against the wall inactive while the strife and the action were going on in which he had once been foremost he saw the stones torn up he saw them used with good effect on the unguarded back door he cried out in useless warning as he saw the upper windows open and aim taken among the crowd but just then the door gave way and there was an involuntary forward motion in the throng so that no one was so disabled by the shots as to prevent his forcing his way in with the rest and now the sounds came veiled by the walls as if some raging ravening beast growling over his prey the noise came and went once utterly ceased and daniel raised himself with difficulty to ascertain the cause when again the roar came clear and fresh and men poured into the yard again shouting and rejoicing over the rescued victims of the press gang daniel hobbled up and shouted and rejoiced and shook hands with the rest hardly caring to understand that the lieutenant and his gang had quitted the house by a front window and that all had poured out in search of them the greater part however returning to liberate the prisoners and then glut their vengeance on the house and its contents from all the windows upper and lower furniture was now being thrown into the yard the smash of glass the heavier crash of wood the cries the laughter the oaths all excited daniel to the utmost and forgetting his bruises he pressed forwards to lend a helping hand the wild rough success of his scheme almost turned his head he hurrayed at every flagrant piece of destruction he shook hands with everyone around him and at last when the destroyers inside paused to take breath he cried out if I was as young as once I was I'd have to run devours down and make a bonfire on it we'd ring the fire bell then to some purpose no sooner said than done their excitement was ready to take the slightest hint of mischief old chairs broken tables odd drawers smashed chests were rapidly and skillfully heaped into a pyramid and one who at the first broaching of the idea had gone for live coals the speedier to light up the fire came now through the crowd with a large shovel full of red hot cinders the rioters stopped to take breath and look on like children at the uncertain flickering blaze which sprang high one moment and dropped down the next only to creep along the base of the heap of wreck and make secure of its future work then the lurid blaze darted up wild high and irrepressible and the men around gave a cry of fierce exultation and in rough mirth began to try and push each other in in one of the pauses of the rushing roaring noise of the flames the moaning low and groan of the poor alarmed cow fastened up in the shipping caught Daniel's ear and he understood his groans as well as if they had been words he limped out of the yard through the now deserted house where men were busy at the mad work of destruction and found his way back to the lane into which the shipping opened the cow was dancing about at the roar and dazzle and heat of the fire but Daniel knew how to soothe her and in a few minutes he had the rope around her neck and led her gently out from the scene of her alarm he was still in the lane when Simpson the man of all work at the mariner's arms crept out of some hiding place in the deserted outbuilding and stood suddenly face to face with Robson the man was white with fear and rage here tack thy beast and lead her where shall none hear yon cries and shouts she's fairly moithered with heat and noise their brain and every raga having the world cast out Simpson I never had much and now I'm a beggar well thou shouldn't have turned again thine own town folk and harbored to gang serve zero eat I'd none be here leading beasts if I were as young as I were I'd be into thicken it it was thee set him on I heard thee I see'd thee a helpin' him on to break in they'd never have thought on attacking the house and setting fire to yon things if thou hadn't spoken on it Simpson was now fairly crying but Daniel did not realize what the loss of all the small property he had in the world was to the poor fellow rapscallion though he was broken down unprosperous near to will in his pride at the good work he believed he had set on foot I said he it's a great thing for folk to have a chap for to lead him way ahead on his shoulders I misdoubt me if they were a fellow there as would have thought a routlin out yon wasps nest it takes a deal a mother wit to be up to things but to gang'll never harbor there again one while I only wish we'd catch them and I should like to have given Hobbs a bit of my mind he's had his sauce said Simpson dolefully him and me is ruined taught taught else got thy brother he's rich enough and Hobbs will do a deal better he's had his lesson now and he'll stick to his own side time to come here tack thy beast and look after her for my bones is aching and make thy cells scarce for some of them fellows has gotten their blood up and would not be for treating thee or well if they fall in with thee Hobbs ought to be served out it were him is made to bargain with lieutenant and he's off safe with his wife and his money bag and I'm left to beggar this neat amongst Haven street my brother and me has had words and he'll do not for me but curse me I had three crown pieces and a good pair of breeches and a shirt and a dare say better nor two pair of stockings I wish to gang and thee and Hobbs and them mad folks up yonder were all down in hell I do calm lad said Daniel no ways offended at his companion's wish on his behalf I'm none flush myself but here's half a crown and tuppence it's off getting with me but it'll keep thee and to beast of food and shelter to neat and get thee a glass of comfort too I had thought a taken one myself but I shall not have any left so I'll just total on to my missus Daniel was not in the habit of feeling any emotion at actions not directly affecting himself or else he might have despised the poor wretch who immediately clutched at the money and overwhelmed that man with slobbery thanks whom he had not a minute before been cursing but all Simpson's stronger passions had been long ago used up now he only faintly liked and disliked where once he loved and hated his only vehement feeling was for himself that cared for other men might wither or flourish as best suited them many of the doors which had been closed shut when the crowd went down the high street were partially open as Daniel slowly returned and light streamed from them on the otherwise dark road the news of the successful attempt at rescue had reached those who had sat in mourning in desolation an hour or two ago and several of these pressed forwards as from their watching corner they recognized Daniel's approach they pressed forward into the street to shake him by the hand to thank him for his name had been brewanted abroad as one of those who had planned the affair and at several places he was urged to have a dram urgency that he was loathed for many reasons to refuse but his increasing uneasiness and pain made him for once abstinent and only anxious to get home and rest but he could not help being both touched and flattered at the way in which those who formed his world looked upon him as a hero and was not insensible to the words of blessing which a wife whose husband had been impressed and rescued this night poured down upon him as he passed there there do not crack thy throat with blessing thy man would have done as much for me though maybe he might not showed so much gumption and capability but them's gifts and not to be proud on when daniel reached the top of the hill on the road home he turned to look round but he was lame and bruised he had gone along slowly the fire had pretty nearly died out only a red hue in the air about the houses at the end of the long high street and a hot lurid mist against the hillside beyond where the mariners arms had stood were still left as signs and tokens of the deed of violence daniel looked and chuckled that comes a ring into fire bell said he to himself it was shame for it to be telling a lie poor old story teller end of chapter 23