CHAPTER XXVI
A DREARY VIGIL
Through the dark rain, against the cold wind, shaken over the roughstones, went Hester in the little tax-cart. Her heart kept risingagainst her fate; the hot tears came unbidden to her eyes. Butrebellious heart was soothed, and hot tears were sent back to theirsource before the time came for her alighting.
The driver turned his horse in the narrow lane, and shouted afterher an injunction to make haste as, with her head bent low, shestruggled down to the path to Haytersbank Farm. She saw the light inthe window from the top of the brow, and involuntarily she slackenedher pace. She had never seen Bell Robson, and would Sylvia recollecther? If she did not how awkward it would be to give the explanationof who she was, and what her errand was, and why she was sent.Nevertheless, it must be done; so on she went, and standing withinthe little porch, she knocked faintly at the door; but in thebluster of the elements the sound was lost. Again she knocked, andnow the murmur of women's voices inside was hushed, and some onecame quickly to the door, and opened it sharply.
It was Sylvia. Although her face was completely in shadow, of courseHester knew her well; but she, if indeed she would have recognizedHester less disguised, did not know in the least who the woman,muffled up in a great cloak, with her hat tied down with a silkhandkerchief, standing in the porch at this time of night, could be.Nor, indeed, was she in a mood to care or to inquire. She saidhastily, in a voice rendered hoarse and arid with grief:
'Go away. This is no house for strangers to come to. We've enough onour own to think on;' and she hastily shut the door in Hester'sface, before the latter could put together the right words in whichto explain her errand. Hester stood outside in the dark, wet porchdiscomfited, and wondering how next to obtain a hearing through theshut and bolted door. Not long did she stand, however; some one wasagain at the door, talking in a voice of distress and remonstrance,and slowly unbarring the bolts. A tall, thin figure of an elderlywoman was seen against the warm fire-light inside as soon as thedoor was opened; a hand was put out, like that which took the doveinto the ark, and Hester was drawn into the warmth and the light,while Bell's voice went on speaking to Sylvia before addressing thedripping stranger--
'It's not a night to turn a dog fra' t' door; it's ill letting ourgrief harden our hearts. But oh! missus (to Hester), yo' mun forgiveus, for a great sorrow has fallen upon us this day, an' we're likebeside ourselves wi' crying an' plaining.'
Bell sate down, and threw her apron over her poor worn face, as ifdecently to shield the signs of her misery from a stranger's gaze.Sylvia, all tear-swollen, and looking askance and almost fiercely atthe stranger who had made good her intrusion, was drawn, as it were,to her mother's side, and, kneeling down by her, put her arms roundher waist, and almost lay across her lap, still gazing at Hesterwith cold, distrustful eyes, the expression of which repelled anddaunted that poor, unwilling messenger, and made her silent for aminute or so after her entrance. Bell suddenly put down her apron.
'Yo're cold and drenched,' said she. 'Come near to t' fire and warmyo'rsel'; yo' mun pardon us if we dunnot think on everything atonest.'
'Yo're very kind, very kind indeed,' said Hester, touched by thepoor woman's evident effort to forget her own grief in the duties ofhospitality, and loving Bell from that moment.
'I'm Hester Rose,' she continued, half addressing Sylvia, who shethought might remember the name, 'and Philip Hepburn has sent me ina tax-cart to t' stile yonder, to fetch both on yo' back toMonkshaven.' Sylvia raised her head and looked intently at Hester.Bell clasped her hands tight together and leant forwards.
'It's my master as wants us?' said she, in an eager, questioningtone.
'It's for to see yo'r master,' said Hester. 'Philip says he'll besent to York to-morrow, and yo'll be fain to see him before he goes;and if yo'll come down to Monkshaven to-night, yo'll be on t' spotagain' the time comes when t' justices will let ye.'
Bell was up and about, making for the place where she kept herout-going things, almost before Hester had begun to speak. Shehardly understood about her husband's being sent to York, in thepossession of the idea that she might go and see him. She did notunderstand or care how, in this wild night, she was to get toMonkshaven; all she thought of was, that she might go and see herhusband. But Sylvia took in more points than her mother, and, almostsuspiciously, began to question Hester.
'Why are they sending him to York? What made Philip leave us? Whydidn't he come hissel'?'
'He couldn't come hissel', he bade me say; because he was bound tobe at the lawyer's at five, about yo'r father's business. I thinkyo' might ha' known he would ha' come for any business of his own;and, about York, it's Philip as telled me, and I never asked why. Inever thought on yo'r asking me so many questions. I thought yo'd beready to fly on any chance o' seeing your father.' Hester spoke outthe sad reproach that ran from her heart to her lips. To distrustPhilip! to linger when she might hasten!
'Oh!' said Sylvia, breaking out into a wild cry, that carried withit more conviction of agony than much weeping could have done. 'Imay be rude and hard, and I may ask strange questions, as if I caredfor t' answers yo' may gi' me; an', in my heart o' hearts, I carefor nought but to have father back wi' us, as love him so dear. Ican hardly tell what I say, much less why I say it. Mother is sopatient, it puts me past mysel', for I could fight wi' t' verywalls, I'm so mad wi' grieving. Sure, they'll let him come back wi'us to-morrow, when they hear from his own sel' why he did it?'
She looked eagerly at Hester for an answer to this last question,which she had put in a soft, entreating tone, as if with Hesterherself the decision rested. Hester shook her head. Sylvia came upto her and took her hands, almost fondling them.
'Yo' dunnot think they'll be hard wi' him when they hear all aboutit, done yo'? Why, York Castle's t' place they send a' t' thievesand robbers to, not honest men like feyther.'
Hester put her hand on Sylvia's shoulder with a soft, caressinggesture.
'Philip will know,' she said, using Philip's name as a kind ofspell--it would have been so to her. 'Come away to Philip,' said sheagain, urging Sylvia, by her looks and manner, to prepare for thelittle journey. Sylvia moved away for this purpose, saying toherself,--
'It's going to see feyther: he will tell me all.'
Poor Mrs. Robson was collecting a few clothes for her husband with aneager, trembling hand, so trembling that article after article fellto the floor, and it was Hester who picked them up; and at last,after many vain attempts by the grief-shaken woman, it was Hesterwho tied the bundle, and arranged the cloak, and fastened down thehood; Sylvia standing by, not unobservant, though apparentlyabsorbed in her own thoughts.
At length, all was arranged, and the key given over to Kester. Asthey passed out into the storm, Sylvia said to Hester,--
'Thou's a real good wench. Thou's fitter to be about mother than me.I'm but a cross-patch at best, an' now it's like as if I was no goodto nobody.'
Sylvia began to cry, but Hester had no time to attend to her, evenhad she the inclination: all her care was needed to help the hasty,tottering steps of the wife who was feebly speeding up the wet andslippery brow to her husband. All Bell thought of was that 'he' wasat the end of her toil. She hardly understood when she was to seehim; her weary heart and brain had only received one idea--that eachstep she was now taking was leading her to him. Tired and exhaustedwith her quick walk up hill, battling all the way with wind andrain, she could hardly have held up another minute when they reachedthe tax-cart in the lane, and Hester had almost to lift her on tothe front seat by the driver. She covered and wrapped up the poorold woman, and afterwards placed herself in the straw at the back ofthe cart, packed up close by the shivering, weeping Sylvia. Neitherof them spoke a word at first; but Hester's tender conscience smoteher for her silence before they had reached Monkshaven. She wantedto say some kind word to Sylvia, and yet knew not how to begin.Somehow, without knowing why, or reasoning upon it, she hit uponPhilip's message as the best comfort in her power to give. Sh
e haddelivered it before, but it had been apparently little heeded.
'Philip bade me say it was business as kept him from fetchin' yo'hissel'--business wi' the lawyer, about--about yo'r father.'
'What do they say?' said Sylvia, suddenly, lifting her bowed head,as though she would read her companion's face in the dim light.
'I dunnot know,' said Hester, sadly. They were now jolting over thepaved streets, and not a word could be spoken. They were now atPhilip's door, which was opened to receive them even before theyarrived, as if some one had been watching and listening. The oldservant, Phoebe, the fixture in the house, who had belonged to itand to the shop for the last twenty years, came out, holding acandle and sheltering it in her hand from the weather, while Philiphelped the tottering steps of Mrs. Robson as she descended behind. AsHester had got in last, so she had now to be the first to move. Justas she was moving, Sylvia's cold little hand was laid on her arm.
'I am main and thankful to yo'. I ask yo'r pardon for speakingcross, but, indeed, my heart's a'most broken wi' fear aboutfeyther.'
The voice was so plaintive, so full of tears, that Hester could notbut yearn towards the speaker. She bent over and kissed her cheek,and then clambered unaided down by the wheel on the dark side of thecart. Wistfully she longed for one word of thanks or recognitionfrom Philip, in whose service she had performed this hard task; buthe was otherwise occupied, and on casting a further glance back asshe turned the corner of the street, she saw Philip lifting Sylviacarefully down in his arms from her footing on the top of the wheel,and then they all went into the light and the warmth, the door wasshut, the lightened cart drove briskly away, and Hester, in rain,and cold, and darkness, went homewards with her tired sad heart.
Philip had done all he could, since his return from lawyer Dawson's,to make his house bright and warm for the reception of his beloved.He had a strong apprehension of the probable fate of poor DanielRobson; he had a warm sympathy with the miserable distress of thewife and daughter; but still at the back of his mind his spiritsdanced as if this was to them a festal occasion. He had even takenunconscious pleasure in Phoebe's suspicious looks and tones, as hehad hurried and superintended her in her operations. A fire blazedcheerily in the parlour, almost dazzling to the travellers broughtin from the darkness and the rain; candles burned--two candles, muchto Phoebe's discontent. Poor Bell Robson had to sit down almost assoon as she entered the room, so worn out was she with fatigue andexcitement; yet she grudged every moment which separated her, as shethought, from her husband.
'I'm ready now,' said she, standing up, and rather repulsingSylvia's cares; 'I'm ready now,' said she, looking eagerly atPhilip, as if for him to lead the way.
'It's not to-night,' replied he, almost apologetically. 'You can'tsee him to-night; it's to-morrow morning before he goes to York; itwas better for yo' to be down here in town ready; and beside Ididn't know when I sent for ye that he was locked up for the night.'
'Well-a-day, well-a-day,' said Bell, rocking herself backwards andforwards, and trying to soothe herself with these words. Suddenlyshe said,--
'But I've brought his comforter wi' me--his red woollen comforter ashe's allays slept in this twelvemonth past; he'll get his rheumatizagain; oh, Philip, cannot I get it to him?'
'I'll send it by Phoebe,' said Philip, who was busy making tea,hospitable and awkward.
'Cannot I take it mysel'?' repeated Bell. 'I could make surer noranybody else; they'd maybe not mind yon woman--Phoebe d'ye callher?'
'Nay, mother,' said Sylvia, 'thou's not fit to go.'
'Shall I go?' asked Philip, hoping she would say 'no', and becontent with Phoebe, and leave him where he was.
'Oh, Philip, would yo'?' said Sylvia, turning round.
'Ay,' said Bell, 'if thou would take it they'd be minding yo'.'
So there was nothing for it but for him to go, in the first flush ofhis delightful rites of hospitality.
'It's not far,' said he, consoling himself rather than them. 'I'llbe back in ten minutes, the tea is maskit, and Phoebe will take yo'rwet things and dry 'em by t' kitchen fire; and here's the stairs,'opening a door in the corner of the room, from which the stairsimmediately ascended. 'There's two rooms at the top; that to t' leftis all made ready, t' other is mine,' said he, reddening a little ashe spoke. Bell was busy undoing her bundle with trembling fingers.
'Here,' said she; 'and oh, lad, here's a bit o' peppermint cake;he's main and fond on it, and I catched sight on it by good luckjust t' last minute.'
Philip was gone, and the excitement of Bell and Sylvia flagged oncemore, and sank into wondering despondency. Sylvia, however, rousedherself enough to take off her mother's wet clothes, and she tookthem timidly into the kitchen and arranged them before Phoebe'sfire.
Phoebe opened her lips once or twice to speak in remonstrance, andthen, with an effort, gulped her words down; for her sympathy, likethat of all the rest of the Monkshaven world, was in favour ofDaniel Robson; and his daughter might place her dripping cloak thisnight wherever she would, for Phoebe.
Sylvia found her mother still sitting on the chair next the door,where she had first placed herself on entering the room.
'I'll gi'e you some tea, mother,' said she, struck with the shrunkenlook of Bell's face.
'No, no' said her mother. 'It's not manners for t' help oursel's.'
'I'm sure Philip would ha' wished yo' for to take it,' said Sylvia,pouring out a cup.
Just then he returned, and something in his look, some dumbexpression of delight at her occupation, made her blush and hesitatefor an instant; but then she went on, and made a cup of tea ready,saying something a little incoherent all the time about her mother'sneed of it. After tea Bell Robson's weariness became so extreme,that Philip and Sylvia urged her to go to bed. She resisted alittle, partly out of 'manners,' and partly because she keptfancying, poor woman, that somehow or other her husband might sendfor her. But about seven o'clock Sylvia persuaded her to comeupstairs. Sylvia, too, bade Philip good-night, and his look followedthe last wave of her dress as she disappeared up the stairs; thenleaning his chin on his hand, he gazed at vacancy and thoughtdeeply--for how long he knew not, so intent was his mind on thechances of futurity.
He was aroused by Sylvia's coming down-stairs into the sitting-roomagain. He started up.
'Mother is so shivery,' said she. 'May I go in there,' indicatingthe kitchen, 'and make her a drop of gruel?'
'Phoebe shall make it, not you,' said Philip, eagerly preventingher, by going to the kitchen door and giving his orders. When heturned round again, Sylvia was standing over the fire, leaning herhead against the stone mantel-piece for the comparative coolness.She did not speak at first, or take any notice of him. He watchedher furtively, and saw that she was crying, the tears running downher cheeks, and she too much absorbed in her thoughts to wipe themaway with her apron.
While he was turning over in his mind what he could best say tocomfort her (his heart, like hers, being almost too full for words),she suddenly looked him full in the face, saying,--
'Philip! won't they soon let him go? what can they do to him?' Heropen lips trembled while awaiting his answer, the tears came up andfilled her eyes. It was just the question he had most dreaded; itled to the terror that possessed his own mind, but which he hadhoped to keep out of hers. He hesitated. 'Speak, lad!' said she,impatiently, with a little passionate gesture. 'I can see thouknows!'
He had only made it worse by consideration; he rushed blindfold at areply.
'He's ta'en up for felony.'
'Felony,' said she. 'There thou're out; he's in for letting yon menout; thou may call it rioting if thou's a mind to set folks again'him, but it's too bad to cast such hard words at him asyon--felony,' she repeated, in a half-offended tone.
'It's what the lawyers call it,' said Philip, sadly; 'it's no wordo' mine.'
'Lawyers is allays for making the worst o' things,' said she, alittle pacified, 'but folks shouldn't allays believe them.'
'It's lawyers as has to ju
dge i' t' long run.'
'Cannot the justices, Mr. Harter and them as is no lawyers, give hima sentence to-morrow, wi'out sending him to York?'
'No!' said Philip, shaking his head. He went to the kitchen door andasked if the gruel was not ready, so anxious was he to stop theconversation at this point; but Phoebe, who held her young master inbut little respect, scolded him for a stupid man, who thought, likeall his sex, that gruel was to be made in a minute, whatever thefire was, and bade him come and make it for himself if he was insuch a hurry.
He had to return discomfited to Sylvia, who meanwhile had arrangedher thoughts ready to return to the charge.
'And say he's sent to York, and say he's tried theere, what's t'worst they can do again' him?' asked she, keeping down her agitationto look at Philip the more sharply. Her eyes never slackened theirpenetrating gaze at his countenance, until he replied, with theutmost unwillingness, and most apparent confusion,--
'They may send him to Botany Bay.'
He knew that he held back a worse contingency, and he was mortallyafraid that she would perceive this reserve. But what he did say wasso much beyond her utmost apprehension, which had only reached tovarious terms of imprisonment, that she did not imagine the darkshadow lurking behind. What he had said was too much for her. Hereyes dilated, her lips blanched, her pale cheeks grew yet paler.After a minute's look into his face, as if fascinated by somehorror, she stumbled backwards into the chair in the chimney comer,and covered her face with her hands, moaning out some inarticulatewords.
Philip was on his knees by her, dumb from excess of sympathy,kissing her dress, all unfelt by her; he murmured half-words, hebegan passionate sentences that died away upon his lips; andshe--she thought of nothing but her father, and was possessed andrapt out of herself by the dread of losing him to that fearfulcountry which was almost like the grave to her, so all butimpassable was the gulf. But Philip knew that it was possible thatthe separation impending might be that of the dark, mysteriousgrave--that the gulf between the father and child might indeed bethat which no living, breathing, warm human creature can ever cross.
'Sylvie, Sylvie!' said he,--and all their conversation had to becarried on in low tones and whispers, for fear of the listening earsabove,--'don't,--don't, thou'rt rending my heart. Oh, Sylvie,hearken. There's not a thing I'll not do; there's not a penny I'vegot,--th' last drop of blood that's in me,--I'll give up my life forhis.'
'Life,' said she, putting down her hands, and looking at him as ifher looks could pierce his soul; 'who talks o' touching his life?Thou're going crazy, Philip, I think;' but she did not think so,although she would fain have believed it. In her keen agony she readhis thoughts as though they were an open page; she sate there,upright and stony, the conviction creeping over her face like thegrey shadow of death. No more tears, no more trembling, almost nomore breathing. He could not bear to see her, and yet she held hiseyes, and he feared to make the effort necessary to move or to turnaway, lest the shunning motion should carry conviction to her heart.Alas! conviction of the probable danger to her father's life wasalready there: it was that that was calming her down, tightening hermuscles, bracing her nerves. In that hour she lost all her earlyyouth.
'Then he may be hung,' said she, low and solemnly, after a longpause. Philip turned away his face, and did not utter a word. Againdeep silence, broken only by some homely sound in the kitchen.'Mother must not know on it,' said Sylvia, in the same tone in whichshe had spoken before.
'It's t' worst as can happen to him,' said Philip. 'More likelyhe'll be transported: maybe he'll be brought in innocent after all.'
'No,' said Sylvia, heavily, as one without hope--as if she werereading some dreadful doom in the tablets of the awful future.'They'll hang him. Oh, feyther! feyther!' she choked out, almoststuffing her apron into her mouth to deaden the sound, and catchingat Philip's hand, and wringing it with convulsive force, till thepain that he loved was nearly more than he could bear. No words ofhis could touch such agony; but irrepressibly, and as he would havedone it to a wounded child, he bent over her, and kissed her with atender, trembling kiss. She did not repulse it, probably she did noteven perceive it.
At that moment Phoebe came in with the gruel. Philip saw her, andknew, in an instant, what the old woman's conclusion must needs be;but Sylvia had to be shaken by the now standing Philip, before shecould be brought back to the least consciousness of the presenttime. She lifted up her white face to understand his words, then sherose up like one who slowly comes to the use of her limbs.
'I suppose I mun go,' she said; 'but I'd sooner face the dead. Ifshe asks me, Philip, what mun I say?'
'She'll not ask yo',' said he, 'if yo' go about as common. She'snever asked yo' all this time, an' if she does, put her on to me.I'll keep it from her as long as I can; I'll manage better nor I'vedone wi' thee, Sylvie,' said he, with a sad, faint smile, lookingwith fond penitence at her altered countenance.
'Thou mustn't blame thysel',' said Sylvia, seeing his regret. 'Ibrought it on me mysel'; I thought I would ha' t' truth, whativercame on it, and now I'm not strong enough to stand it, God help me!'she continued, piteously.
'Oh, Sylvie, let me help yo'! I cannot do what God can,--I'm notmeaning that, but I can do next to Him of any man. I have loved yo'for years an' years, in a way it's terrible to think on, if my lovecan do nought now to comfort yo' in your sore distress.'
'Cousin Philip,' she replied, in the same measured tone in which shehad always spoken since she had learnt the extent of her father'sdanger, and the slow stillness of her words was in harmony with thestony look of her face, 'thou's a comfort to me, I couldn't bide mylife without thee; but I cannot take in the thought o' love, itseems beside me quite; I can think on nought but them that is quickand them that is dead.'
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