 CHAPTER 37 HESTER had been prevented by her mother's indisposition from taking Philip's letter to the fosters to hold a consultation with him over its contents. Alice Rose was slowly failing, and the long days which she had to spend alone told much upon her spirits, and consequently upon her health. All this came out in the conversation which ensued after reading Hepburn's letter in the little parlour at the bank on the day after Sylvia had had her confidential interview with Jeremiah Foster. He was a true man of honour, and had never so much as eluded to her visit to him. But what she had then told him influenced him very much in the formation of the project which he proposed to his brother and Hester. He recommended her remaining where she was, living still in the house behind the shop, for he thought within himself that she might have exaggerated the effect of her words upon Philip, that, after all, it might have been some cause totally disconnected with them which had blotted out her husband's place among the men of Monshaven, and that it would be so much easier for both to resume their natural relations both towards each other and towards the world if Sylvia remained where her husband had left her, in an expectant attitude, so to speak. Jeremiah Foster questioned Hester straightly about her letter, whether she had made known its contents to any one. No, not to any one. Neither to her mother, nor to William Coulson. No, to neither. She looked at him as she replied to his inquiries, and he looked at her, each wondering if the other could be in the least aware that a conjugal quarrel might be at the root of the dilemma in which they were placed by Hepburn's disappearance. But neither Hester, who had witnessed the misunderstanding between the husband and wife on the evening, before the morning on which Philip went away, nor Jeremiah Foster, who had learned from Sylvia the true reason of her husband's disappearance, gave the slightest reason to the other to think that they each supposed they had a clue to the reason of Hepburn's sudden departure. What Jeremiah Foster, after a night's consideration, had to propose was this, that Hester and her mother should come and occupy the house in the market place, conjointly with Sylvia and her child. Hester's interest in the shop was by this time acknowledged. Jeremiah had made over to her so much of his share in the business that she had a right to be considered as a kind of partner, and she had long been the superintendent of that Department of Goodge which were exclusively devoted to women. So her daily presence was requisite for more reasons than one. Yet her mother's health and spirits were such as to render it unadvisable that the old woman should be too much left alone, and Sylvia's devotion to her own mother seemed to point her out as the very person who could be a gentle and tender companion to Alice Rose during those hours when her own daughter would necessarily be engaged in the shop. Many desirable objects seemed to be gained by this removal of Alice. An occupation was provided for Sylvia, which would detain her in the place where her husband had left her, and where Jeremiah Foster Felly expected in spite of his letter, he was likely to come back to find her. And Alice Rose, the early love of one of the brothers, the old friend of the other would be well cared for, and under her daughter's immediate supervision during the whole of the time that she was occupied in the shop. Philip's share of the business, augmented by the money which he had put in from the legacy of his old Cumberland uncle, would bring in profits enough to support Sylvia and her child in ease and comfort until that time, which they all anticipated, when he should return from his mysterious wandering, mysterious, but whether his going forth had been voluntary or involuntary. Thus far was settled, and Jeremiah Foster went to tell Sylvia of the plan. She was too much a child, too entirely unaccustomed to any independence of action, to do anything but leave herself in his hands. Her very confession, made to him the day before, when she sought his counsel, seemed to place her at his disposal. Otherwise, she had had notions of the possibility of a free country life once more. How provided for an arraign she hardly knew, but Hatersbank was to let, and Kester disengaged, and it had just seemed possible that she might have to return to her early home and to her old life. She knew that it would take much money to stop the farm again, and that her hands were tied from much useful activity by the love and care she owed to her baby. But still, somehow, she hoped and she fancied, till Jeremiah Foster's measured words and carefully arranged plan made her silently relinquish her green breezy vision. Chapter two had her own private rebellion, hushed into submission by her gentle piety. If Sylvia had been able to make Philip happy, Hester could have felt lovingly and almost gratefully towards her, but Sylvia had failed in this. Philip had been made unhappy, and was driven forth awonderer into the wide world, never to come back, and his last words to Hester, the postscript of his letter containing the very pith of it, was to ask her to take charge and care of the wife whose want of love towards him had uprooted him from the place where he was valued and honoured. It cost Hester many a struggle and many a self-reproach before she could make herself feel what she saw all along, that in everything Philip treated her like a sister. But even a sister might well be indignant if she saw her brother's love disregarded and slighted, and his life embittered by the thoughtless conduct of a wife. Still, Hester fought against herself, and for Philip's sake she sought to see the good in Sylvia, and she strove to love her as well as to take care of her. With the baby, of course, the case was different. Without thought or struggle or reason, everyone loved the little girl. Coulson and his books and wife, who were childless, were never weary of making much of her. Hester's happiest hours were spent with that little child. Jeremiah Foster almost looked upon her as his own from the day when she honoured him by yielding to the temptation of the chain and seal and coming to his knee. Not a customer to the shop but knew the smiling child's sad history, and many a countrywoman would save a rosy cheeked apple from out her store that autumn to bring it on next market day for Philip Hepburn's baby as had lost its father. Bless it. Even stern Alice Rose was graciously inclined towards the little beller, and though her idea of the number of the elect was growing narrower and narrower every day, she would have been loathed to exclude the innocent little child that stroked her wrinkled cheek so softly every night in return for her blessing from the few that should be saved. Nay, for the child's sake she relented towards the mother, and strove to have Sylvia rescued from the many castaways with fervent prayer, or as she phrased it, wrestling with the Lord. Alice had a sort of instinct that the little child, so tenderly loved by, so fondly loving, the mother whose eulange she was, could not be even in heaven, without yearning for the creature she had loved best on earth. And the old woman believed that this was the principal reason for her prayers for Sylvia, but unconsciously to herself Alice Rose was touched by the filial attention she constantly received from the young mother, whom she believed to be for doomed to condemnation. Sylvia rarely went to church or chapel, nor did she read her Bible. For though she spoke little of her ignorance, she would feign for her child's sake, her remitted it, now it was too late, she had lost what little fluency of reading she had ever had, and could only make out her words with much spelling and difficulty. So the taking her Bible in hand would have been a mere form, though of this Alice Rose knew nothing. No one knew much of what was passing in Sylvia, she did not know herself. Sometimes in the nights she would waken crying with a terrible sense of desolation. Everyone who loved her, or whom she had loved had vanished out of her life. Everyone but her child, who lay in her arms warm and soft. But then Jeremiah Foster's words came upon her, words that she had taken for cursing at the time, and she would so gladly have had some clue by which to penetrate the darkness of the unknown region from whence both blessing and cursing came, and to know if she had indeed done something which should cause her sin to be visited on that soft, sweet, innocent darling. If anyone would teach her to read, if anyone would explain to her the hard words she heard in church or chapel, so that she might find out the meaning of sin and godliness, words that she had only passed over the surface of her mind till now. For her child's sake, she should like to do the will of God, if she only knew what that was, and how to be worked out in her daily life. But there was no one she dared confess her ignorance to and ask information from. Jeremiah Foster had spoken, as if her child, sweet little Mary-Bella, with a loving word and a kiss for everyone, was to suffer heavily for the just and true words her wronged and indignant mother had spoken. Alice always spoke as if there were no hope for her, and blamed her nevertheless for not using the means of grace that it was not in her power to avail herself of, and Hester, that Sylvia would feign have loved for her uniform gentleness and patience with all around her, seemed so cold in her unruffled and undemonstrative behaviour, and moreover Sylvia felt that Hester blamed her perpetual silence regarding Philip's absence without knowing how bitter a cause Sylvia had for casting him off. The only person who seemed to have pity upon her was Kester, and his pity was shown in looks rather than words, for when he came to see her, which he did from time to time, by a kind of mutual tacit consent, they spoke but little of former days. He was still lodging with his sister, Winno Dobson, working at odd jobs, some of which took him into the country for weeks at a time, but on his returns to Munchshaven he was sure to come and see her and the little Bella. Indeed, when his employment was in the immediate neighbourhood of the town, he never allowed a week to pass away without a visit. There was not much conversation between him and Sylvia at such times, they skimmed over the surface of the small events in which both took an interest, only now and then, a sudden glance, a checked speech, told each that there were deeps not forgotten, although they were never mentioned. Twice Sylvia, below her breath, had asked Kester, just as she was holding the door open for his departure, if anything had ever been heard of Kinraid since his one night's visit to Munchshaven, each time, and there was an interval of some months between the inquiries, the answer had been simply, no. To no one else would Sylvia ever have named his name, but indeed she had not the chance, had she wished it ever so much, of asking any questions about him from anyone likely to know. The Cornys had left Mossbrough at Martinmas, and gone many miles away towards Hormcastle. Bessie Corny, it is true, was married, and left behind in the neighbourhood. Bessie Corny, it is true, was married and left behind in the neighbourhood, but, with her, Sylvia had never been intimate, and what girlish friendship there might have been between them, had called very much at the time of Kinraid's supposed death three years before. One day before Christmas in this year, 1798, Sylvia was called into the shop by Coulson, who, with his assistant, was busy undoing the bales of winter goods supplied to them from the West Riding, and other places. He was looking at a fine Irish poplin dress-piece when Sylvia answered to his call. Here, do you know this again? asked he in the cheerful tone of unsure of giving pleasure. No, have I ever seen it before? Not least, but one for all will like it. She did not rouse up to much interest, but looked at it as if trying to recollect where she could have seen it's like. My missus had one on at party at John Foster's last march, and you married at a deal, and Philip, he thought of nothing but how he could get you just such another, and he said to vast a fork and get it for to meet with Marrow. And what he did just the very day before he went away so mysterious was to write through Dawson Brothers' weight field to doubling an order that one should be woven for you. Jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give him to exact colour. Sylvia did not say anything but that it was very pretty in a low voice, and then she quickly left the shop, much to Coulson's displeasure. All the afternoon she was unusually quiet and depressed. Alice Rose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched her with keen eyes. At length, after one of Sylvia's deep unconscious sighs, the old woman spoke. It's religion is must comfort thee, child, as it's done many a one of four thee. How! said Sylvia, looking up, startled to find herself an objective notice. How! The answer was not quite so ready as the precept had been. Read the Bible, and thou wilt learn. But I cannot read, said Sylvia, too desperate any longer to conceal her ignorance. Not read, and thee, Philip's wife, is with such a great score. O'er surety, the wares of this life are crooked. Thou was our ester, as can read as well as any minister, and Philip passes over her to go and choose a young lass, as cannot read a Bible. Was Philip an ester, Sylvia paused, for though a new curiosity had dawned upon her, she did not know how to word her question. Many a time an oft have I seen ester take comfort in her Bible, when Philip was following after thee. She knew where to go for consolation. Had Finn read, said Sylvia humbly, if anybody would learn me, for perhaps he might do me good. No, I'm so happy. Her eyes, as she looked up to Alice's stern countenance, were full of tears. The old woman saw it, and was touched, although she did not immediately show her sympathy. But she took her own time, and made no reply. The next day, however, she bade Sylvia come to her, and then and there, as if her pupil had been a little child, she began to teach Sylvia to read the first chapter of Genesis. For all other reading what the scriptures was as vanity to her, and she would not condescend to the weakness of other books. Sylvia was now as ever slower book learning, but she was meek and deserous to be taught, and her willingness in this respect pleased Alice, and drew her singularly towards one who, from being a pupil, might become a convert. At this time Sylvia never lost the curiosity that had been excited by the few words Alice had let drop about Hester and Philip, and by degrees she approached the subject again, and had the idea then started confirmed by Alice, who had no scruple in using the past experience of her own, of her daughters, or of anyone's life, as an instrument to prove the vanity of setting the heart on anything earthly. This knowledge, unsuspected before, sank deep into Sylvia's thoughts, and gave her a strange interest in Hester, poor Hester, whose life she had so crossed and blighted, even by the very blighting of her own. She gave Hester her own form of passionate feelings for Kin-Raid, and wondered how she herself should have felt towards anyone who had come between her and him, and willed his love away. When she remembered Hester's unfailing sweetness and kindness towards herself from the very first, she could better bear the comparative coldness of her present behaviour. She tried, indeed, hard, to win back the favour she had lost, but the very means she took were blunders, and only made it seem to her as if she could never again do right in Hester's eyes. For instance, she begged her to accept and wear the pretty popling gown which had been Philip's special choice, feeling within herself as if she should never wish to put it on, and as if the best thing she could do with it was to offer it to Hester. But Hester rejected the Prophet's gift with as much hardness of manner as she was capable of assuming, and Sylvia had to carry it upstairs and lay it by for the little daughter, who, Hester said, might perhaps learn to value things that her father had given a special thought to. Yet Sylvia went on trying to win Hester to like her once more. It was one of her great labours, and learning to read from Hester's mother was another. Alice, indeed, in her solemn way, was becoming quite fond of Sylvia. If she could not read or write, she had a deafness and gentleness of motion, a capacity for the household matters which fell into her department that had a great effect on the old woman, and for her dear mother's sake, Sylvia had a stock of patient love already in her heart for all the aged and infirm that fell in her way. She never thought of seeking them out, as she knew that Hester did, but then she looked up to Hester as someone very remarkable for her goodness. If only she could have liked her. Hester tried to do all she could for Sylvia. Philip had told her to take care of his wife and child, but she had the conviction that Sylvia had so materially failed in her duties as to have made her husband an exile from his home, a penniless wanderer, wifeless and childless in some strange country whose very aspect was friendless, while the cause of all lived on in the comfortable home where he had placed her, wanting for nothing, an object of interest in regard to many friends, with a lovely little child to give her joy for the present and hope for the future, while he, the poor outcast, might even lie dead by the wayside. How could Hester love Sylvia? Yet they were frequent companions that ensuing spring. Hester was not well, and the doctors said that the constant occupation in the shop was too much for her, and that she must, for a time at least, take daily walks into the country. Sylvia used to beg to accompany her. She and the little girl often went with Hester up the valley of the river to some of the nestling farms that were hidden in the more sheltered nooks, for Hester was bidden to drink milk warm from the cow, and to go into the familiar haunts about a farm was one of the few things in which Sylvia seemed to take much pleasure. She would let little Bella toddle about while Hester sat and rested, and she herself would beg to milk the cow destined to give the invalid her draft. One May evening the three had been out on some such expedition. The countryside still looked gray and bare, though the leaves were showing on the willow and black thorn and slow, and by the tinkling runnels making hidden music along the cop side, the pale delicate primrose buds were showing amid their fresh green crinkled leaves. The larks had been singing all the afternoon, but were now dropping down into the nests in the pasture fields. The air had just the sharpness in it which goes along with the cloudless evening sky at that time of the year. But Hester walked homeward slowly and languidly speaking no word. Sylvia noticed this at first without venturing to speak, for Hester was one who disliked having her ailments noticed. But after a while Hester stood still in a sort of weary, dreamy abstraction, and Sylvia said to her, I'm afraid you're sadly tired. Maybe we've been too far. Hester almost started. No, said she, it's only my headache which is worse tonight. It has been bad all day. But since I came out it's felt just as if there were great guns booming, so I could almost pray him to be quiet. I'm so weary of the sound. She stepped out quickly towards home after she had said this, as if she wished for neither pity nor comment on what she had said. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 of Sylvia's Lovers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Xu Shen. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell. Chapter 38 The Recognition. Far away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, great guns were booming on that 7th of May 1799. The Mediterranean came up with a long roar on a beach glittering white with snowy sand and the fragments of innumerable seashells delicate and shining as porcelain. Looking at that shore from the sea, a long ridge of upland ground, beginning from an inland depth, stretched far away into the ocean on the right, till it ended in a great mountainous bluff, crowned with the white buildings of a convent, sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its base. In the clear eastern air, the different characters of the foliage that clothed the sides of that sea-washed mountain might be discerned from a long distance by the naked eye. The silver gray of the olive trees near its summit, the heavy green and bossy forms of the sycamores lower down, broken here and there by a solitary terribent or ilux tree, of a deeper green and a wider spread, till the eye fell below on the maritime plain, edged with the white seaboard and the sandy hillocks, with here and there feathery palm trees, either isolated or in groups, motionless and distinct against the hot purple air. Look again. A little to the left on the seashore, there are the white walls of a fortified town, glittering in sunlight, or black in shadow. The fortifications themselves run out into the sea, forming a port into Haven against the wild Levantine storms, and a lighthouse rises out of the waves to guide mariners into safety. Beyond this walled city and far away to the left steel, there is the same wide plain shut in by the distant rising ground till the upland circuit comes closing in to the north and the great white rocks meet the deep tideless ocean with its intensity of blue color. Above the sky is literally purple with heat and the pitiless light smites the gazer's weary eye as it comes back from the white shore. Nor does the plain country in that land offer the refuge and rest of our own soft green. The limestone rock underlies the vegetation and gives a glittering ash and hue to all the bare patches and even to the cultivated parts which are burnt up early in the year. In springtime alone does the country look rich and fruitful. Then the cornfields of the plain show their capability of bearing some fifty, some an hundredfold. Down by the brook you shone, flowing not far from the base of the mountainous promontory to the south, there grow the broad green fig trees cool and fresh to look upon. The orchards are full of glossy leaves cherry trees. The tall amaryllis puts forth crimson and yellow glories in the fields, rivaling the pomp of King Solomon. The daisies and the hyacinths spread their myriad flowers. The anemones, scarlet as blood, run hither and thither over the ground like dazzling flames of fire. A spicy odor lingers in the heated air. It comes from the multitude of aromatic flowers that blossom in the early spring. Later on they will have withered and faded and the corn will have been gathered and the deep green of the eastern foliage will have assumed a kind of gray bleached tint. Even now in May, the hot sparkle of the everlasting sea, the terribly clear outline of all objects, whether near or distant, the fierce sun right overhead, the dazzling air around, were inexpressibly wearying to the English eyes that kept their skilled watch day and night on the strongly fortified coast town that lay out a little to the northward of where the British ships were anchored. They had kept up a flanking fire for many days in eight of those besieged in Saint-Jean-de-Cœur and at intervals had listened impatient to the sound of the heavy siege guns or the sharper rattle of the French musketry. In the morning, on the 7th of May, a man at the masthead of the Tigray sang out that he saw ships in the offing, and in reply to the signal that was hastily run up, he saw the distant vessels hoist friendly flags. That May morning was a busy time. The besieged Turks took heart of grace. The French outside, under the command of their great general, made hasty preparations for a more vigorous assault than all many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone before, for the siege was now at its fifty first day. In hopes of carrying the town by storm before the reinforcement coming by sea could arrive, and Sir Sidney Smith, aware of Bonaparte's desperate intention, ordered all the men, both sailors and marines, that could be spared from the necessity of keeping up a continual flanking fire from the ships upon the French to land and assist the Turks and the British forces already there in the defence of the old historic city. Lieutenant Kinrad, who had shared his captain's daring adventure off the coast of France three years before, who had been a prisoner with him in Wesley Wright in the temple at Paris, and had escaped with them, and through Sir Sidney's earnest recommendation, been promoted from being a warrant officer to the rank of lieutenant, received on this day the honour from his admiral of being appointed to an a special post of danger. His heart was like a war-horse, and said, Ha-ha! as the boat bounded over the waves that were to land him under the ancient machicolated walls where the crusaders made their last stand in the Holy Land. Not that Kinrad knew or cared one-shot about those gallant knights of old, all he knew was that the French under Boney were trying to take the town from the Turks, and that his admiral said they must not, and so they should not. He and his men landed on that sandy shore, and entered the town by the water-port gate. He was singing to himself his own country song, Wilme de Kilro, de Kilro, and his men, with sailor's aptitude for music, caught up the air and joined in the burden with inarticulate sounds. So, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow streets of Akra, hemmed in on either side by the white walls of Turkish houses, with small graded openings high up, above all chance of peeping intrusion. Here and there they met an ample-robed and turban turk going along with as much haste as his stately self-possession would allow. But the majority of the male inhabitants were gathered together to defend the breach, where the French guns thundered out far above the heads of the sailors. They went along nonetheless merrily for the sound to Czarposh's garden, where the old turk sat on his carpet beneath the shade of a great terribinth tree, listening to the interpreter, who made known to him the meaning of the eager speeches of Sir Sydney Smith and the Colonel of the Marines. As soon as the Admiral saw the gallant sailors of HMS Tigray, he interrupted the Council of War without much ceremony, and going to Kinrad, he dispatched them, as before arranged, to the North Ravlin, showing them the way with rapid, clear directions. Out of respect to him they had kept silent while in the strange, desolate garden. But once more in the streets the old Newcastle song rose up again till the men were perforised silenced by the haste with which they went to the post of danger. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, for many a day these very men had been swearing at the terrific heat at this hour, even when its sea fanned by the soft breeze. But now, in the midst of hot smoke, with former carnage tainting the air, and with the rush and whiz of death perpetually whistling in their ears, they were un-complaining and light-hearted. Many an old joke in some new ones came brave and hearty on their cheerful voices, even though the speaker was veiled from sight in grey clouds of smoke, cloven only by the bright flames of death. A sudden message came, as many of the crew of the T Gray as were under Lieutenant Kinrad's command were to go down to the Mole, to assist the new reinforcements seen by the sailor from the last head at Dadeon, under command of Hassan Bay, to land at the Mole where Sir Sidney then was. Off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as before, though two of their number lay silent for ever at the North Ravlin, silenced in that one little half-hour, and one went along with the rest, swearing lustily at his ill luck and having his right arm broken, but ready to do good business with his left. They helped the troops to land more with good will than tenderness. And then, led by Sir Sidney, they went under the shelter of English guns to the fatal breach so often assailed, so gallantly defended, but never so fiercely contested as on this burning afternoon. The ruins of the massive wall that here had been broken down by the French were used by them as stepping stones to get on a level with the besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones which the latter hurled down. Nay, even the dead bodies of the morning's comrades were made into ghastly stares. When Jisar Pasha heard that the British sailors were defending the breach, headed by Sir Sidney Smith, he left his station in the palace garden, gathered up his robes and haste and hurried to the breach, where, with his own hands and with right hearty good will, he pulled the sailors down from the post of danger, saying that if he lost his English friends he lost all. But little wrecked the crew of the Tigray of the one old man, Pasha or otherwise, who tried to hold them back from the fight. They were up and at the French assailants clamoring over the breach in an instant, and so they went on as if it were some game at play instead of a deadly combat, until Kinrad and his men were called off by Sir Sidney, as the reinforcement of Turkish troops under Hasan Bey were now for the defense of that old breach in the walls, which was no longer the principal object of the French attack, for the besiegers had made a new and more formidable breach by their incessant fire, knocking down whole streets of the city walls. Fight your best, Kinrad, said Sir Sidney, for there's boney on yonder-hill looking at you, and sure enough, on a rising ground called Richard General's on horseback, all deferentially attending to the motions, and apparently to the words of a little man in their center, at whose bidding the aid to camp galloped swift with messages to the more distant French camp. The two ravelins which Kinrad and his men had to occupy, for the purpose of sending a flanking fire upon the enemy, were not ten yards from that enemy's van. But at length there was a sudden rush of the French to the part of the wall where they imagined they could enter unopposed. Surprised at this movement, Kinrad ventured out of the shelter of the ravelin to ascertain the cause. He, safe and untouched during that long afternoon of carnage, fell now under a stray musket shot, and lay helpless and exposed upon the ground, undersurned by his men, who were recalled to help in the hot reception which had been planned for the French. Kinrad and his men were attacked with sabre and dagger, and lay headless corpses under the flowering rosebushes and by the fountainside. Kinrad lay beyond the ravelins, many yards outside the city walls. He was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken his leg. Dead bodies of French men lay strewn around him, no Englishman had ventured out so far. Many of these, furious with pain, gnashed their teeth at him and cursed him aloud, till he thought that his best course was to assume the semblance of death. For some among these men were still capable of dragging themselves up to him, and by concentrating all their failing energies into one blow, put him to a speedy end. The outlying pickets of the French army were within easy rifle-shot, and even spicuous in colour than that of the marines by whose sides he had been fighting, would make him a sure mark if he so much as moved his arm. Yet how he longed to turn, if ever so slightly, so that the cruel slanting sun might not beat full into his aching eyes. Fever, too, was coming upon him. The pain in his leg was every moment growing more severe. The terrible thirst of the country made his lips and tongue feel baked and dry, and his whole throat seemed parched and wooden. Thoughts of other days, of cool Greenland seas, where ice abounded, of grassy English homes, began to make the past more real than the present. With a great effort he brought his wandering senses back. He knew where he was now, and could weigh the chances of his life, which the unwanted tears came to his eyes as he thought of the newly-made wife in her English home, who might never know how he died thinking of her. Suddenly he saw a party of English Marines advance under shelter of the ravelin to pick up the wounded and bear them within the walls for surgical help. They were so near he could see their faces, could hear them fire. For one moment he could not resist raising his head to give himself a chance for life, before the unclean creatures that infest a camp came round in the darkness of the night to strip and insult the dead bodies, and to put to death such as had yet the breath of life within them. But the setting sun came full into his face and he saw nothing of what he longed to see. He fell down. That strong clear sun beam had brought his salvation. He had been recognized as men are recognized when they stand in the red glare of a house on fire. The same despair of help of hopeless farewell to life stamped on their faces in blood red light. One man left his fellows and came running forwards in among the bodies. He seemed to understand without a word. He lifted him up carrying him like a child and with the vehement energy that is more from the force of will than the strength of body he bore him back to within the shelter of the ravelin. Not without many shots being aimed at them. One of which hit Kinrad in the fleshy part yet he remembered afterwards how the Marine recalled his fellows and how in the pause before they returned his face became like one formerly known to the six senses of Kinrad. Yet it was too like a dream too utterly improbable to be real. Yet the few words this man said as he stood breathless and alone by the fainting Kinrad fitted in well with the strength he panted out I never thought you'd a kept true to her and then the others came up and while they were making a sling of their belts Kinrad fainted utterly away and the next time that he was fully conscious he was lying in his birth in the tea gray with the ship surgeon setting his leg after that he was too feverish for several days to collect his senses and upon his recollections he called the man especially charged to attend upon him and bait him go and make inquiry in every possible manner for a marine named Philip Hepburn and when he was found to entreat him to come and see Kinrad the sailor was away the greater part of the day and returned unsuccessful in his search he had been from death no one knew anything of any Philip Hepburn Kinrad passed a miserably feverish night and when the doctor exclaimed the next morning at his retrogression he told him with some irritation of the ill success of his servant he accused the man of stupidity and wished fervently that he were able to go himself partly to soothe him the doctor promised that he would and he engaged faithfully to follow all Kinrad's eager directions not to be satisfied with Ben's careless words but to look over muster rolls and ships books he too brought the same answer however unwillingly given he had set out upon the search so confident of success that he felt doubly discomforted by failure however he had persuaded himself that the lieutenant had been overly delirious from the effects of his wound and the power of the sun shining down just where he lay there had indeed been slight symptoms of Kinrad's having received a sunstroke and the doctor dwelt largely on these in his endeavour to persuade his patient that it was his imagination which had endued a stranger with the lineaments of some former friend Kinrad threw his arms out of bed irritating than the fact that Hepburn was still undiscovered the man was no friend of mine I was like to have killed him when last I saw him he was a shopkeeper in a country town in England I had seen little enough of him but enough to make me able to swear to him anywhere even in a marine's uniform and in this sweltering country face is once seen especially in a fever quote the doctor sententiously the attendant sailor reinstalled to some complacency by the failure of another in the search in which he himself had been unsuccessful now put in his explanation maybe it was a spirit it's not the first time as I've heard of a spirit coming upon earth to save a man's life a time in need my father sentry-grazier I was a coming over Dartmoor and Devinshire one moonlit night with a power of money as he'd got for his sheep at a fair it was stored in leather bags under the seat of the gig it were a rough kind of road both as a road and a character for there'd been many robbers there of late and the great rock stood convenient for hiding places all at once he looked his seat and he turns his head and looks on there he sees his brother sitting his brother as had been dead twelve years and more so he turns his head back again eyes bright and never say a word but wonders what it all means all of a sudden two fellows come out upon the white road from but for all that he heard one say to the other but there's two on him straight on he drove faster than ever till he saw the far lights of some town or other but I forget its name though I've hewed it many a time and then he drew a long breath and turned his head to look at his brother and asked him how he'd managed to come out of his grave in baron church yard and that he knew that it were a spirit come to help him against the many thought to rob him and would likely enough have murdered him Kinrad had kept quiet through this story but when the sailor began to draw the moral in to say and I think I may make bold a say sir as the marino carried you out of the French's gunshot was just a spirit come to help you he exclaimed impatiently it was no spirit I tell you and I was in my false senses it was a man named Philip Hepburn he said words to me or over me as none but himself would have said yet we hated each other like poison and I can't make out why he should be there and putting himself in danger to save me but so it was and as it was him and not my fancy doctor it was flesh and blood and not a spirit Jack so get along with you and leave me quiet all this time Stephen Freeman lay friendless sick and shattered on board the thesis he had been about his duty close to some shells that were placed on her deck a gay young midshipman was thoughtlessly striving to get close at hand and a fearful explosion ensued in which the poor marine cleaning his bayonet near was shockingly burnt and disfigured the very skin of all the lower parts of his face being utterly destroyed by gunpowder they said it was a mercy that his eyes were spared but he could hardly feel anything to be a mercy as he lay tossing an agony burnt by the winters and feeling that he was disabled for life if life itself were preserved of all that suffered by that fearful accident and they were many none was so forsaken so hopeless so desolate as the Philip Hepburn about whom such anxious inquiries were being made at that very time End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 of Sylvia's Lovers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Shu Shan Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell Chapter 39 Confidences It was a little later on in that same summer that Mrs. Brunton came to visit her sister Bessie. She had the most equal distance between Monkshaven and Hartzwell but from old habit and convenience the latter was regarded as the Dawson's market-town so Bessie seldom or never saw her old friends in Monkshaven but Mrs. Brunton was far too flourishing a person not to speak out her wishes and have her own way. She had no notion she said she might have added that her new bonnet and cloak would be as good as lost if it was not displayed among those who knowing her as Molly Corny and being less fortunate in matrimony than she was would look upon it with wondering admiration if not with envy. So one day Farmer Dawson's market cart deposited Mrs. Brunton in all her bravery at the shop in the after a few words of brisk recognition to Coulson and Hester Mrs. Brunton passed on into the parlor and greeted Sylvia with boisterous heartiness. It was now four years and more since the friends had met and each secretly wondered how they had ever come to be friends. Sylvia had a country raw spiritless look to Mrs. Brunton's soft slow speech and grave thoughtful ways. However they kept up the forms of their old friendship though their hearts had drifted far apart. They sat hand in hand while each looked at the other with eyes inquisitive as to the changes which time had made. Molly was the first to speak. Well to be sure how thin and pale you've grown Sylvia. He'd had known how many yards of silk I should've taken for gown he'd had thought twice before he'd had married me. Why I've gained a matter of thirty pound of flesh than I were married. You do look brave and hearty said Sylvia putting her sense of her companion's capacious size and high colour into the prettiest word she could. And he heared on it. I mind he was smoking at the time and he took his pipe out of his mouth and took out to ashes as grave as any judge. The man says he has gone desert a wife like Sylvia Robson as was deserves hanging. That's what he says. Is Sylvia but speak in a word all over? Well, poor creature, I would not. It is hot on the I grant, but to give to devil his do it were good a hitburn to marry thee, and so soon after there was all that talk about they father. Many a man would had drawn back, choose however far they'd gone. I'm not on so sure about Charlie Keenered. Is there twelve cows in his cow house beside three right down good horses? And Keenered were always a fellow with two strings to his bow. I've always said and do maintain that he went on pretty strong with you, Sylvia. And I will say I think he cared more for you than for Arbesi, though it were only yesterday at in she were standing out I wonder if she didn't see it. Wait a minute. I cut it out to gentlemen's magazine as Brunton bought a purpose and put it in my pocket book when I were coming here. I know I've got it somewhere. She took out her smart crimson pocket book and rummaged in the pocket until she produced a little crumpled bit of printed paper from which she read aloud. On the fortune of ten thousand pounds. Thir! she said triumphantly. It's something as Brunton says to be cousin to that. Would you let me see it? said Sylvia timidly. Mrs. Brunton graciously consented. And Sylvia brought her newly acquired reading knowledge, hitherto principally exercised on the Old Testament to bear on these words. There was nothing wonderful in them, nothing that she might not have expected. She never thought of seeing him again. Never. But to think of his caring for another woman as much as he had done for her. Nay, perhaps more. The idea was irresistibly forced upon her that Philip would not have acted so. It would have taken long years before he could have been induced to put another on the throne she had once occupied. For the first time in her life but thank you when she gave the scrap of paper back to Molly Brunton and the latter continued giving her information about Kinrad's marriage. He were down into west, Plymouth or somewhere when he met with her. She's no father. He'd been into sugar-baking business, but from what Kingrad wrote to Old Turner, the uncle has brought him up at Cola Coats, she's had to best of education, can play on to instrument and dance to him, which I must say being his cousin was very pretty on her. He's left her now, having to go off into Tigray as is his ship to the Mediterranean seas, and she's written to offer to come and see Old Turner and make friends with his relations, and Brunton is going to give me a crimson satin as soon as we know for certain when she's coming, but we're sure to be asked out to Cola Coats. I wonder if she's very pretty as Sylvia faintly in the first friend. There was a traveller who's come to our shop as had been at York, and knew some of her cousin's dear that were into grocery line. Her mother was a York lady, and they said she was just a picture of a woman and ever saw many gentlemen had been wanting to marry her, but she just waited for Charlie Kingradiusy. Well, I hope they'll be happy. I'm sure I do," said Sylvia. That's just luck. Some folks are using it. Many such unaccountable animals there's no profit-sign upon them. Who'd have thought your husband, him as was so slow and sure, steady Philip as Willas as used to call him. Making a moonlight flitten, and leaving her to be a widow bewitched. He didn't go at night," said Sylvia, taking the words moonlight-flitting in their literal sense. No. Well, I only said moonlight-flitten just because it come uppermost can't make it out from what Bessie says. Had he and you had words? But in course you had. At this moment Hester came into the room, and Sylvia joyfully availed herself of the pretext for breaking off the conversation that had reached this painful and awkward point. She detained Hester in the room for fear lest Mrs. Brunton should repeat her inquiry as to how it all happened that Philip had gone away. But the presence of a third person seemed as though it would be but little restraint upon the relative Molly, who repeatedly bore down upon the same questions till she nearly drove Sylvia distracted. Between her astonishment at the news of Kinrad's marriage, her wish to be alone and quiet so as to realize the full meaning of that piece of intelligence, her desire to retain Hester in the conversation, her efforts to prevent Molly's recurrence to the circumstances of Philip's disappearance, and the longing more vehement every minute can leave her in peace. She became so disturbed with all these thoughts and feelings that she hardly knew what she was saying, and assented or dissented to speeches without there being either any reason or truth in her words. Mrs. Brunton had arranged to remain with Sylvia while the horse rested, and had no compunction about the length of her visit. She expected to be asked to tea as Sylvia found in the course careless talk of such a woman as Mrs. Brunton without lifting her voice in many a testimony against it. Sylvia sat holding Hester's gown tight in order to prevent her leaving the room, and trying to arrange her little plan so that too much discordance should not arise to the surface. Just then the door opened, and little Bella came close. A slow smile softening the sternness of her gray face, for the child was the unconscious darling of the household, and all eyes softened into love as they looked on her. She made straight for her mother with something grasped in her little dimpled fist, but halfway across the room she seemed to have become suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger, and she stopped short, straight down into her very real self, and then, stretching out her disengaged hand, the baby spoke out the words that had been hovering about her mother's lips for an hour past. Don't away! said Bella decisively. What a perfect love! said Mrs. Brunton, half in real admiration, half in patronage. As she spoke, she got up and went towards the child as if to take her up. Don't away! said Sylvia. She's shy. She doesn't know strangers. But Mrs. Brunton had grasped the struggling kicking child by this time, and her reward for this was a vehement little slap in the face. You naughty little spoiled thing, said she, setting Bella down in a hurry. You deserve a good whipping, you do, and if you were mine, you should have it. Sylvia had no need to stand up for the baby who had run the defense. The child said as plain as words could say, go away, and if thou wouldst follow thine own will instead of heeding her wish, thou men put up with the wilfulness of the old Adam, at which it seems to me thou has get a nice share at thirty as well as little Bella at two. Thirty! said Mrs. Brunton, now fairly affronted. Thirty! Why, Sylvia, you know I am but two years late. Molly's but four and twenty, said Sylvia in a Pacificatory tone. Whether she be twenty or thirty or forty is a like to me, said Alice, I meant no harm. I meant but four to say as her angry was to the child we spoke her to be one of the foolish. I know not who she is nor what her age may be. She is an old friend of mine, said Sylvia. She's Mrs. Brunton now, hey, and you are Sylvia Robson, and as Bonnie and Lighthearted alas as any in auto-riding, though now you're a poor widow bewitched, live with a child as I mustn't speak a word about and living with folk as talk about the old Adam as if he wasn't dead and done with long ago. It's a change, Sylvia, as makes my heart ache for you to think on them all days when you were so thought on you might have had any man but seven year old soon be passed for the time he went off and you'll only be six and twenty then and there'll be a chance of a better husband for you after all so keep up your heart, Sylvia. Molly Brunton had put as much venom as she knew how into this speech, meaning it is a vengeful payment for the supposition of her being thirty, even more than for the reproof for her angry words about the child. She thought the Alice Rose must be either mother or aunt of countenance that was remarkable in both, and she rather exalted in the allusion to a half-year second marriage for Sylvia, with which she had concluded her speech. It roused Alice, however, as effectually as if she had been really a blood relation to Philip, but for a different reason. She was not slow to detect the intentional offensiveness to herself in what had been said. She was indignant at Sylvia's truth. They were too much in keeping with Molly Brunton's character to make as much impression on Sylvia as they did on a stranger. And besides, she felt as if the less reply Molly received the less likely would it be that she would go on in the same strain. So she coaxed and chattered to her child and behaved like a little coward in trying to draw out of the conversation while at the same time listening attentively. She knows my mind," said Alice in grim indignation. She is humbling herself now, I trust and pray, but she was like-minded and full of vanity when Philip married her, and it might have been a lift towards her salvation in one way. But it pleased the Lord to work in a different way, and she men wear her sackcloth and ashes and patience. So I'll say not more about her, but for him as as absent as thee has spoken her. If he were led away by a pretty face to slight one as was fitter for him and who had loved him as the apple of her eye, it's him as his suffering for it, and as much as he's a wanderer from his home and an outcast from wife and child. To the surprise of all, Molly's words of reply were cut short even when they were on her lips, by Sylvia, pale, fire-eyed Philip in me. He acted cruel and wrong by me, but I've said my words to him his self, and I'm not ungoing to make any plain to others. Only them as no should judge, and it's not fitting, it's not almost sobbing, to go on with talk like this to for me. The two, for Hester who is aware that her presence had only been dealt with surprise at Sylvia. Her words, her whole manner, belonged to a phase of her character which seldom came uppermost, and which had not been perceived by either of them before. Alice rose, though astonished, rather approved of Sylvia's speech. It showed that she had more serious thought and feeling on the subject than the old woman had given her opinion. Molly Brunton gave vent to her opinion on Sylvia's speech and the following words. Hoity-toity, that tells tales last. If you treated steady Philip to many such looks and speeches as you've given us now, it's easy to see why he took his self off. Why, Sylvia, I never saw it in you when you was a girl. You're grown into a regular little fixin'. There you are, but at Molly's jesting words she's sank back into her usual look and manner, only saying quietly. It's for no one to say whether I'm vixen or not, as doesn't know the past things as as buried in my heart. But I cannot hold them as my friends as go on talking on either my husband or me before my very face. But Molly was in twenty minds as to whether she should accept the olive branch or not. Her temper, however, was of that obtuse kind which is not easily ruffled. Her mind, stagnant in itself, enjoyed excitement from without, and her appetite was invariably good, so she stayed in spite of the inevitable day-to-day with Alice. The latter, however, refused to be drawn into conversation at all. When all were gathered at tea, Sylvia was quite calm again, rather paler than usual, and very attentive and subdued in her behaviour to Alice. She would evidently feign have been silent, but as Molly was her own the special guest that could not be, so all her endeavours went towards steering the conversation away from any awkward points. But each of the four guests were very concerned about the conversation at the guest's house. When she was fairly off, Alice Rose opened her mouth in strong condemnation, winding up with, and if thought in my words give the course for offend Sylvia, it was because my heart rose within me at that kind of talk she was silent for a few moments, then she said, I had often thought of telling you and Hester special like when you've been so kind to my little Bella that Philip and me could never come together again. No, not if he came home this very night. She would have gone on speaking, but Hester interrupted her with a low cry of dismay. Alice said, Hush the Hester, it's no business of thine. Sylvia Hepburn dowered speaking like menace finds out she's been cheated by menace she trusted and has no help for it. I'm not ungoing to say any more about it. It's me as has been wronged and as has to bear it. Only I thought I'd tell you both this much that you might know somewhat why he went away and how I said my last word about it. So indeed it seemed, to all questions and remonstrances from Alice, Sylvia turned a deaf ear. She averted her face tilting her arms round Hester's neck. She laid her head on her neck and whispered, Poor Hester, poor poor Hester, if you and he had but been married together, what a dillissor would have been spared to us all. Hester pushed her away as she finished these words, looked searchily into her face, her eyes, and then followed Sylvia into her room where Bella lay sleeping, shut the door and almost knelt down Sylvia. She murmured, Someone has told you. I thought no one knew. It's no sin. It's done away with now. Indeed it is. It was long ago, before you were married. But I cannot forget. It was a shame, perhaps, to have thought on it ever, when he never thought on me. But I never believed as anyone could have found it out. I'm just fit to sink into ground, what would my sorrow and my shame. Hester was stopped by her own rising sobs Sylvia was sitting on the ground holding her and soothing her with caresses and broken words. I'm always saying to wrong things, said she. It seems as if I were all upset today. And indeed I am. She added, alluding to the news of Kinrad's marriage she had yet to think upon. But it wasn't your Hester. It were nothing you ever said or did, or looked for that matter. It were your mother as laid out. Oh mother, it was anyone but God were unknown that I had ever for a day thought on his being more to me than a brother. Sylvia made no reply. Only went on stroking Hester's smooth brown hair off which her cap had fallen. Sylvia was thinking how strange life was and how love seemed to go all across purposes and was losing herself in bewilderment at the mystery of the world. She was almost startled when you know what has been my trouble and my shame and I'm sure you're sorry for me. For I will humble myself to you and own that for many months before you were married I felt my disappointment like a heavy burden laid on me by day and by night. But now I ask you if you've any pity for me for what I went through or if you've any love for me because of your dead mother's love for me or because of your life from out of your heart. He may have done you wrong anyway you think that he has I never knew him ought to be kind and good but if he comes back from wherever in the wide world he's gone to and there's not a night but I pray God to keep him and send him safe back. You put away the memory of past injury and forgive it all and be what you can be Sylvia if you've a mind to know nothing about it Hester tell me then pleaded Hester no said Sylvia after a moment's hesitation I'd do a deal for you I would but I daren't forgive Philip even if I could I took a great oath again him you may look shocked at me but it's him as you ought for to be shocked at if you knew all I said I'd never forgive him honestly and almost bitterly losing her hold on Sylvia's hands if it weren't for baby there I could think as it were my death as it be best them as one thinks to most on forgets one's soonest it was kin rad to whom she was alluding but Hester did not understand her chapter 40 of sylvia's lovers this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Diana Moininger sylvia's lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell chapter 40 an unexpected messenger after this agitation and this partial confidences no more was said on the subject of Philip they avoided even the slightest illusion to him and none of them knew how seldom or how often he might be present in the minds of the others one day the little Bella was unusually frankish with some slight childish in this position and sylvia was obliged to have recourse to the never-failing piece of amusement namely to take the child into the shop when the number of new bright-colored articles was sure to be guiled a little girl out of her fretfulness kept steady to her mother's hand when Mr. Dawson's market cart once more stopped before the door but it was not Mrs. Brunton who alighted now it was a very smartly-dressed very pretty young lady who put one dainty foot before the other with care as if descending from as such a primitive vehicle were a new occurrence in her life then she looked up at the names above the shop door and after ascertaining that this was indeed the place she desired to find in blushing it Mrs. Hepburn at home she asked of Hester whose position in the shop brought her forward to receive the new customers while Sylvia drew Bella out of sight behind some great boughs of red flannel can I see her the sweet south country voice went on still addressing Hester Sylvia heard the inquiry and came forward with a little rustic you please walk this way ma'am said she leading her visitor back into her own dominion of the parlor and leaving Bella to Hester's willing care you don't know me said the pretty young lady joyously but I think you knew my husband I am Mrs. Kinrade a sub of surprise rose to Sylvia's lips she choked it down however and tried to conceal any emotion but the truth must be told Sylvia was wondering all the time why her visitor came and how soon she would go you knew Captain Kinrade did you not said the young lady with innocent inquiry to which Sylvia's lips formed the answer yes but no clear sound issued there from but I know your husband knew the captain is he at home yet can I speak to him I do so want to see him Sylvia was utterly bewildered by this prosperous little bird of a woman Philip Charlie's wife what could they having common what could they know of each other all she could say an answer to Mrs. Kinrade's eager question and still more eager looks was that her husband was from home had been long from home she did not know where he was she did not know when he would come back Mrs. Kinrade's face Mrs. Dawson told me he had gone away rather suddenly a year ago but I thought he might become home by now I am expecting the captain early next month oh how I should have liked to see Mr. Hepburn and to thank him for saving the captain's life what do you mean as Sylvia stirred up of all assumed indifference the captain is that not Charlie she could not use your husband yes you knew him didn't you when he used to be staying with Mr. Corny his uncle yes I knew him but I don't understand will you please to tell me all about it ma'am said Sylvia faintly I thought your husband would have told you all about it I hardly know where to begin you know my husband and the royal navy all earned by his own bravery oh I am so proud of him so could Sylvia have been if she had been his wife as it was she thought how often she had felt sure that he would be a great man some day and he has been at the siege of Acre Sylvia look perplexed at these strange words and Mrs. Kindred caught the look so in Jane Decray about it myself till the captain's ship was ordered there though I was had a girl at Miss Dobbins in the geography class Acre is a seaport town not far from Jaffa which is the mother name of Jopa where Saint Paul went too long ago you've read of that I'm sure and Mount Carmel where the prophet Elijah was once already true about Saint Paul but please ma'am will you tell me about your husband and mine have they met again yes at Acre I tell you said Mrs. Kindred with pretty petulance the Turks held the town and the French wanted to take it and we that is a British fleet wouldn't let them so Sir Sidney Smith a Commodore and a great friend of the captain's landed in order to fight the French hot and the poor captain was wounded and lay a dying of pain and thirst within the enemies that is the French fire so that they were ready to shoot any one of his own sight who came near him they thought he was that himself you see as he was very near and would have been too if her husband had not come out of shelter and taken him up in his arms or in his back I couldn't make out which and carried him safe within the walls it couldn't have been Philip said Sylvia dubiously but it was the captain said so and he's not a man to be mistaken I thought I got his letter with me and I would have read you a part of it but I loved to death Mrs. Dawson's in my desk and I can't send it to you blushing as she remembers certain passages in which the captain wrote very much like a lover or else I would but you the captain would not have said so but they weren't they weren't not to call great friends I wish I got the letter here I can't think how I could be so stupid I think I can almost remember the very words though I've read them over so often he says just as I gave up all hope I still want Philip Hepburn a man whom I had known at Monshaven and whom I had some reason to remember well I am sure he saw me too and came at the risk of his life to where I lay I fully expected he would be shot down and I shut my eyes not to see the end of my last chance the shot rained about him and I think he was hit but he took me up and carried me on the cover I'm sure he says that I read it over so often and he goes on and says how he hunted for Mr. Hepburn all through the ships as soon as ever he could either alive or dead don't go so white for pity's sake said she suddenly started by Sylvia's blanching color you see because he couldn't find him alive is no reason for giving him up as dad because his name wasn't to be found on any of the ships books so the captain thinks he must have been known by a different name to his real one only he says he should like to have seen him to have thanked him and he says he would give a deal to know and as I was staying two days at Mrs. Dawson's I told them I must come over to Monkshaven if only for five minutes just to hear if your good husband was to come home and to shake his hands that helped to save my own dear captain I don't think it could have been Philip reiterated Sylvia why not asked her visitor you say you don't know where he is why might he have been there where the captain says he was but he wasn't a sailor nor yet a soldier oh but he was I think somewhere the captain calls him a marine that's neither one nor the other but a little of both he'll be coming home some day soon and then you'll see Alice Rose came in at this minute and Mrs. Kinway jumped to the conclusion that she was Sylvia's mother and in her overflowing gratitude and friendliness all to the family of him who had saved the captain she went forward and shook the old woman's hand in a pleasant fighting way that wins all hearts here's your daughter man she said to the half astonished half pleased Alice I'm Mrs. Kinway the wife of the captain that used to be in these parts and I've come to bring her news of her husband and she don't help believe me though it's all to his credit I'm sure Alice looked so perplexed that Sylvia felt herself bound to explain she says he's either a soldier or a sailor named in the Bible Philip Hebron led a way to be a soldier said she who had once been a Quaker yes and a very brave one too and wanted it to do my heart good to look upon exclaimed Mrs. Kinway he's been saving my husband's life in the holy land where Jerusalem is you know nay said Alice a little scornfully I can forgive Sylvia for not being keen to credit the war and suffer to enter Jerusalem which is a heavenly and a typical city all this time while me as is one of the elect is obliged to go on dwelling in Longshaven just like any other body nay but said Mrs. Kinway gently seeing she was touching on delicate ground I did not say he had gone to Jerusalem but my husband saw him at those parts and he was doing his duty like a brave lady and you may take my word for it he'll be at home some day soon and all I beg is that you let the captain and me know for I'm sure if we can we'll both come and pay our respects to him and I'm very glad I've seen you said she rising to go and putting out her hand to shake that of Sylvia for besides being Hebron's wife I'm pretty sure I've heard the captain she went away leaving Sylvia almost stunned by the new ideas presented to her Philip a soldier Philip in a better risking his life most strange of all Charlie and Philip once more meeting together not as rivals or as foes but as saviour and saved add to all this the conviction strengthened by every word that happy loving wife had uttered that Kinway's old passionate love for herself had faded away utterly it's very existent apparently blotted out of his memory she had torn up her love for him by the roots but she felt as if she could never forget that it had been Hester brought back Bella to her mother she had not like to interrupt the conversation with the strange lady before and now a questionnaire has made such a noise about the place at the time of Darlie's death he is now a captain a navy captain according what she says and she would feign have us believe that Philip is abiding in all manner of scripture places places as has been long done away with but the similar to whereof is in the heavens where the election one day see them and she says soon I wonder what John and Jeremiah will say to his soldiering then it will be known to be their taste I'm thinking it was all very intelligible to Hester and she would dearly have like to question Sylvia but Sylvia sat a little apart with Bella on her knee her cheek resting on his child's golden curls and her eyes fixed and almost trans like her mother as many illusory questions as she could and after all did not gain a very clear idea of what had really been said by Mrs. Kinredd as her mother was more full of the apparent injustice of Philips being allowed the privilege of treading on holy ground if indeed that holy ground existed on this side heaven which she lost herself to a sense of Hester's deep interest and balked inquiries and she went over the ground rapidly your mother says right she is his wife and he's always filing and got too near to French as was shooting and firing all around him and just then according to her story Philips saw him and went straight into the midst of the shots and fetched him out of danger and why should it not be asked Hester her cheek flushing but Sylvia only shook her head and said I cannot tell it may be so where they had little cause to be friends and it seems also strange Philip a soldier and a meeting there after all Hester laid the story of Philips bravery to her heart she fully believed in it Sylvia pondered it more deeply still the causes of Hester were unknown to Hester many a time she sank to sleep with a picture of her elephant narrated by Mrs. Kinway that's present to her mind as her imagination or experience could make it first one figure prominent than another many a morning she wakened up her heart beating widely why she knew not till she shuddered at the remembrance of the scenes to come back and then then where was Philip all this time these many weeks these heavily passing months end of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 of Sylvia's Lovers this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell Chapter 41 The Beadsmen of St. Seppelker Philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship if his heart had been light he might have rallied sooner but he was so depressed he did not care to live his shattered jaw bone his burnt and blackened face his many injuries of body were tortured to both his physical frame and his sick weary heart no more chance for him if indeed there ever had been day and gallant and thus regaining his wife's love this had been his poor foolish vision in the first hour of his enlistment and the vain dream had recurred more than once in the feverish stage of excitement which the new scenes into which he had been hurried as a recruit had called for it but that was all over now he knew that it was the most unlikely thing in the world to have come to pass and yet those were happy days when he could think of it as figment feebleness and the bare pittance that keeps pensioners from absolute want those around him were kind enough to him in their fashion and attended to his bodily requirements but they had no notion of listening to any revelations of unhappiness if Philip had been the man to make confidence as of that kind as it was he lay very still in his birth seldom asking for anything and always saying he was better when the ship surgeon was really inquiries but he did not care to rally and was rather sorry to find that his case was considered so interesting in a surgical point of view that he was likely to receive a good deal more than the average amount of attention perhaps it was owing to this that he recovered at all the doctors said it was the heat that made him languid for that his wounds and burns were all doing well at last but he did not say a word he was too indifferent to life and the world to have a will otherwise they might have kept their pet patient a little longer where he was slowly passing from ship to ship as occasion served resting here and there in garrison hospitals Philip at length reached Portsmouth on the evening of a September day in 1799 the transport ship in which he was was loaded with wounded struggled on deck to catch the first view of the white coasts of England one man lifted his arm took off his cap and feebly waved at a loft crying old England forever in a faint shrill voice and then burst into tears and sobbed aloud others tried to pipe up rule Britannia while more sate weak and motionless looking towards the shores that once not so long ago they never knew the other men he was muffled up in a great military cloak that had been given him by one of his officers he felt the September breeze chill after his sojourn in a warmer climate and in his shattered state of health as the ship came inside of Portsmouth harbour the signal flags ran up the ropes the beloved union jack floated triumphantly and men in uniform were seen pressing their way to the front as if to them belonged the right of reception they were the men from the barrack hospital that had been signaled for come down with ambulance litters and other marks of forethought for the sick and wounded who were returning to the country for which they had fought and suffered with a dash and a great rocking swing the bustling care the loud directions that cut the air around him and pierced his nerves through and through but one in authority gave the order and Philip disciplined to obedience rose to find his knapsack and leave the ship passive as he seemed to be he had his likings for particular comrades there was one especially a man as different from Philip as well could be to whom the latter had always attached himself with the doctors say he would never be the man he was before he had that shot through the side this marine would often sit making his fellows laugh and laughing himself at his own good humor jokes till so terrible a fit of coughing came on that those around him feared he would die in the paroxysm after one of these fits he had gasped out some words which led Philip to question him a little life in a child a little girl just the same age even to a week as Philip's own little Bella it was this that drew Philip towards the man and this that made Philip wait and go ashore along with the poor consumptive marine the litters had moved off towards the hospital the sergeant in charge had given his words of command to the remaining invalids who tried to obey them to the best of their power falling into behind and felt as if the rough welcomes and rude expressions of sympathy from the crowd around were almost too much for them Philip and his companion were about midway when suddenly a young woman with a child in her arms forced herself through the people between the soldiers who kept pressing on either side and threw herself on the neck of Philip's friend oh Jim she sobbed I've walked all the road from Potton I've never stopped but for food she did not seem to see the deadly change that had come over her husband since she parted with him a ready young laborer she had got him once again as she phrased it and that was enough for her she kissed his face his hands his very coat nor would she be repulsed from walking beside him and holding his hand while her little girl ran along scared by the voices and the strange faces and cleaning to her mammy's gown Jim coughed poor fellow to him envied his life envied his approaching death for was he not wrapped around with that woman's tender love and is not such love stronger than death Philip had felt as if his own heart was grown numb as though it had changed to a cold heavy stone but at the contrast of this man's lot to his own he felt that he had yet the power of suffering left to him the road they had to go was full of people kept off in some measure by the guard of soldiers and many a curious question were addressed to the poor invalids as they walked along Philip's jaw and the lower part of his face were bandaged up his cap was slouched down he held his cloak about him and shivered within its folds they came to a standstill from son's slight obstacle at the corner of the street down the causeway of this street a naval officer with a lady on his arm was walking briskly with a step named and wounded men he said something of which Philip only caught the words sane uniform for his sake to the young lady whose cheek blanched a little but whose eyes kindled then leaving her for an instant he pressed forward he was close to Philip poor sad Philip absorbed in his own thoughts so absorbed that he noticed nothing till he heard a voice at his ear having the Northumbrian bur the illness and then he turned his muffled face to the speaker though he knew well enough who it was and averted his eyes after one side of the handsome happy man the man whose life he had saved once and would save again at the risk of his own but whom for all that he prayed he might never meet more on earth here my fine fellow take this forcing a coin to captain can raid of course in vain nor was there time to urge it back upon the giver for the obstacle to their progress was suddenly removed the crowd pressed upon the captain and his wife the procession moved on and Philip along with it holding the peace in his hand and longing to throw it far away indeed he was on the point of dropping it hoping to do so unperceived when he thought him of giving it more than he could well bear it was no credit to him to give that away which burned his fingers as long as he kept it Philip knew that the injuries he had received in the explosion on board the thesis would oblige him to leave the service he also believed that they would entitle him to a pension but he had little interest in his future life he was without hope and in a depressed state of health he remained for some little time stationary and then went through his life to a place upon the world uncertain where to go indifferent as to what became of him it was fine warm October weather as he turned his back upon the coast and set off on his walk northwards green leaves were yet upon the trees the hedges were of one flesh of foliage and the wild rough flavored fruits of different kinds the fields and the bright pains of the windows glittered through a veil of china roses the war was a popular one and as a natural consequence soldiers and sailors were heroes everywhere Philip's long drooping form his arm hung in a sling his face scarred and blackened his jaw bound up with a black silk handkerchief these marks of active service were reverenced by the rustic cottagers as though they had been crowns and sefters he came to his door to have a look at one who had been fighting the French and pushed forward to have a grasp of the stranger's hand as he gave back the empty cup into the good wife's keeping for the kind homely women were ever ready with milk or homebrewed to slake the feverish travellers thirst when he stopped at their doors and asked for a drink of water at the village public house he had had a welcome in his door as a soldier or sailor who had seen service the rustic politicians would gather round Phillip and smoke and drink and then question and discuss till they would draw the again and in their sturdy obtuse minds they set down the extra glass and the supernumerary pipe to the score of patriotism altogether human nature turned its sunny side out to Phillip just now and not before he needed the warmth and slow progress of a feeble man and yet this short daily walk tired him so much that he longed for rest for the morning to come when he needed not to feel that in the course of an hour or two he must be up and away he was toiling on with this longing at his heart when he saw that he was drawing near a stately city with a great old cathedral in the center keeping solemn guard this place might be yet two or three standing by observed his pallid looks and his languid attitude and told him for his comfort that if he turned down a lane to the left a few steps farther on he would find himself at the hospital of saint seppelker where bread and beer were given to all comers and where he might sit him down and rest a while on the old stone benches within the shadow of the gateway obeying these directions Phillip came upon a building which dated in the early days his confesser to build and endow a hospital for twelve decayed soldiers and a chapel wherein they were to attend the daily masses he ordained to be said till the end of all time which eternity lasted rather more than a century pretty well for an eternity bespoken by a man for his soul and the souls to say these masses and to watch over the well-being of the beadsman in process of years the origin and primary purpose of the hospital had been forgotten by all accepting the local antiquaries and the place itself came to be regarded as a very pleasant quaint set of alms houses and the warden's office he who should have said or sung his daily masses was now called the warden and read daily prayers and preached a sermon on Sundays an agreeable day was that of a small craft of land the renter-profits of which were to go towards giving to all those who asked for it a manche of bread and a cup of good beer this beer was so Sir Simon ordained to be made after a certain receipt which he left in which ground ivy took the place of hops but the receipt as well as the masses was modernized according to the progress of time Philip stood under a great broad stone archway the back door into the warden's house was on side a kind of buttery hatch was placed by the porter's door on the opposite side after some consideration Philip knocked at the closed shutter and the signal seemed to be well understood he heard a movement within the hatch was drawn aside and his bread and beer were handed to him by a pleasant-looking old man who proved himself not at all disinclined for conversation you must sit down on yonder bench said he hey man sit in this sun for it's a chilly place out in the quad Philip sat down where the warm October sun slanted upon him and looked through the iron railing at the peaceful site a great square of velvet lawn intersected diagonally with broad flag-paved walks the same kind of walk going all around the quadrangle low two-storied brick houses tinted gray and yellow by age and in many places almost covered with vines Virginia creepers and monthly roses before each house a little plot of garden ground bright with flowers and evidently tended with the utmost care on the farther side the massive chapel here and there an old or infirm man sunning himself or leisurely doing a bit of gardening or talking to one of his comrades the place looked as if care and want and even sorrow were locked out and excluded by the ponderous gates through which Philip was gazing it's a nice place beint it said the porter interpreting Philip's looks pretty accurately least ways for them as likes it I've got myself it's so far from the world as a man may say not a decent public within a mile and a half where one can hear a bit of news of an evening I think I could make myself very content here replied Philip that's to say if one were easy in one's mind I I'm a man that's it everywhere why I don't think that I could enjoy myself not even at the white heart where they give you as good a glass of ale for tuppances anywhere in the four kingdoms an old woman lay a dying which is a sign as it's the heart and not the ale as makes the drink just then the warden's back door opened and out came the warden himself dressed in full clerical costume he was going into the neighbouring city but he stopped to speak to Philip the wounded soldier and all the more readily because his old faded uniform told the warden's experienced eye that he had belonged to the marines I hope you enjoy the victory provided for you by my good fellow and as if a slice of good cold meat would help your bread down thank you sir said Philip I'm not hungry only weary and glad of a draft of beer you've been in the marines I see where have you been serving I was at the siege of Arcray last May sir at Arcray were you indeed then perhaps you know my boy Harry he was in the blank it was my company said Philip warming up a so full of small daily interests then did you know my son Lieutenant Pennington it was he that gave me this cloak sir when they were send me back to England I had been his servant for a short time before I was wounded by the explosion on board the thesius and he said I should feel the cold of the voyage he's very kind and I've heard say he promises to be a first rate officer you shall have a slice of roast beef whether you now the young scamp how soon he's made it shabby though he continued taking up a corner where there was an immense tear not too well botched up and so you were on board the thesius at the time of the explosion bring some cold meat here for the good man or stay come in with me and then you can tell Mrs. Pennington and the young ladies all you know and he was questioned and cross-questioned by three eager ladies all at the same time as it seemed to him he had given all possible details on the subjects about which they were curious and was beginning to consider how he could best make his retreat when the younger Miss Pennington went up to her father who had all this time stood with his hat on holding his coat tails over his arms with his back to the fire he nodded his head and then went on questioning Philip with kindly inquisitiveness and patronage as the rich do question the poor and where are you going now Philip did not answer directly he wondered in his own mind where he was going at length he said northwards I believe but perhaps I shall never reach there no I'm not going to my friends I don't know they've got any left they interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that he had either lost his friends by death or offended them by enlisting the warden went on I ask because we've got a cottage vacant in the mead old Dobson who was with General Wolfe at the taking of Quebec died a fortnight ago with such injuries as yours I fear you'll never be able to work again but we require with as penetrating a look as he could summon up at Philip Philip looked unmoved either by the offer of the cottage or the illusion to the possibility of his character not being satisfactory he was grateful enough in reality but too heavy at heart to care very much what became of him the warden and his family who are accustomed to consider a settlement at St. Sepulcher's as a sum named the contingent advantages besides the cottage you would have a load of wood for firing on all saints on Christmas and on Candlemas days a blue gown in suit of clothes to match every Michaelmas and a shilling a day to keep yourself in all other things your dinner you would have with the other men in Hall the warden himself goes into Hall every day and sees what I've thought for again and it's a great temptation for I'm just worn out with fatigue several times I've thought I must lie down under a hedge and just die for very weariness but once I had a wife and a child up in the north he stopped and are they dead asked one of the young ladies in a soft sympathizing tone her eyes met Phillips full of dumb woe he tried to speak he wanted to explain more fully yet not to reveal the truth well what I propose is this you shall go into old Dobson's house at once as a kind of probationary beadsman I'll write to Harry and get your character from him Stephen Freeman I think you said your name was before I can receive his reply you'll have been able to tell how you'd like the kind of life and at any rate you'll have a rest you seem to require in the meantime you see I take Harry's having given you that cloak as a kind of character and I'll tell you the remainder of our regulations as we walk across the quadrio new quarters and thus Phillip almost in spite of himself became installed in a beadsman's house at St. Seppelker End of Chapter 41