Once some one hit very near the truth in a chance remark.
‘It seems strange,’ she said, ‘how as one man turns up, another just disappears. Why, it were but upo' Tuesday as Kinraid come back, as all his own folk had thought to be dead; and next day here's Measter Hepburn as is gone no one knows wheere!’
‘That's t' way i' this world,’ replied Coulson, a little sententiously. ‘This life is full o' changes o' one kind or another; them that's dead is alive; and as for poor Philip, though he was alive, he looked fitter to be dead when he came into t' shop o' Wednesday morning.’
‘And how does she take it?’ nodding to where Sylvia was supposed to be.
‘Oh! she's not herself, so to say. She were just stunned by finding her mother was dying in her very arms when she thought as she were only sleeping; yet she's never been able to cry a drop; so that t' sorrow's gone inwards on her brain, and from all I can hear, she doesn't rightly understand as her husband is missing. T' doctor says if she could but cry, she'd come to a juster comprehension of things.’
‘And what do John and Jeremiah Foster say to it all?’
‘They're down here many a time in t' day to ask if he's come back, or how she is; for they made a deal on ‘em both. They're going t' attend t' funeral to-morrow, and have given orders as t' shop is to be shut up in t' morning.’
To the surprise of every one, Sylvia, who had never left her room since the night of her mother's death, and was supposed to be almost unconscious of all that was going on in the house, declared her intention of following her mother to the grave. No one could do more than remonstrate: no one had sufficient authority to interfere with her. Dr Morgan even thought that she might possibly be roused to tears by the occasion; only he begged Hester to go with her, that she might have the solace of some woman's company.
She went through the greater part of the ceremony in the same hard, unmoved manner in which she had received everything for days past.
But on looking up once, as they formed round the open grave, she saw Kester, in his Sunday clothes, with a bit of new crape round his hat, crying as if his heart would break over the coffin of his good, kind mistress.
His evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly loosed the fountain of Sylvia's tears, and her sobs grew so terrible that Hester feared she would not be able to remain until the end of the funeral. But she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she made an effort to go round by the place where Kester stood.
‘Come and see me,’ was all she could say for crying: and Kester only nodded his head—he could not speak a word.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Mysterious Tidings
That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door. Phœbe opened it. He asked to see Sylvia.
‘A know not if she'll see thee,’ said Phœbe. ‘There's no makin' her out; sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another.’
‘She bid me come and see her,’ said Kester. ‘Only this mornin’, at missus' buryin’, she telled me to come.’
So Phœbe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was there; and returned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour. An instant after he was gone, Phœbe heard him return, and carefully shut the two doors of communication between the kitchen and sitting-room.
Sylvia was in the latter when Kester came in, holding her baby close to her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else, making Nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to Phœbe's indignation.
Sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes alone retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. She went up to Kester, and shook his horny hand, she herself trembling all over.
‘Don't talk to me of her,’ she said hastily. ‘I cannot stand it. It's a blessing for her to be gone, but, oh——’
She began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and swallowed down her sobs.
‘Kester,’ she went on, hastily, ‘Charley Kinraid isn't dead; dost ta know? He's alive, and he were here o' Tuesday—no, Monday, was it? I cannot tell—but he were here!’
‘A knowed as he weren't dead. Every one is a-speaking on it. But a didn't know as thee'd ha' seen him. A took comfort i' thinkin as thou'd ha' been wi' thy mother a' t' time as he were i' t' place.’
‘Then he's gone?’ said Sylvia.
‘Gone; ay, days past. As far as a know, he but stopped a' neet. A thought to mysel' (but yo' may be sure a said nought to nobody), he's heerd as our Sylvia were married, and has put it in his pipe, and ta'en hissel' off to smoke it.’
‘Kester!’ said Sylvia, leaning forwards, and whispering. ‘I saw him. He was here. Philip saw him. Philip had known as he wasn't dead a' this time!’
Kester stood up suddenly.
‘By goom, that chap has a deal t' answer for.’
A bright red spot was on each of Sylvia's white cheeks; and for a minute or so neither of them spoke.
Then she went on, still whispering out her words.
‘Kester, I'm more afeared than I dare tell any one: can they ha' met, think yo‘? T' very thought turns me sick. I told Philip my mind, and took a vow again' him—but it would be awful to think on harm happening to him through Kinraid. Yet he went out that morning, and has niver been seen or heard on sin‘; and Kinraid were just fell1 again' him, and as for that matter, so was I; but—’
The red spot vanished as she faced her own imagination.
Kester spoke.
‘It's a thing as can be easy looked into. What day an' time were it when Philip left this house?’
‘Tuesday—the day she died. I saw him in her room that morning between breakfast and dinner; I could a'most swear to it's being close after eleven. I mind counting t' clock. It was that very morn as Kin-raid were here.’
‘A'll go an' have a pint o' beer at t' King's Arms, down on t' quay-side; it were theere he put up at. An' a'm pretty sure as he only stopped one night, and left i' t' morning betimes. But a'll go see.’
‘Do,’ said Sylvia, ‘and go out through t' shop; they're all watching and watching me to see how I take things; and daren't let on about t' fire as is burning up my heart. Coulson is i' t' shop, but he'll not notice thee like Phœbe.’
By-and-by Kester came back. It seemed as though Sylvia had never stirred; she looked eagerly at him, but did not speak.
‘He went away i' Rob Mason's mail-cart, him as tak's t' letters to Hartlepool. T' lieutenant (as they ca' him down at t' King's Arms; they're as proud on his uniform as if it had been a new-painted sign to swing o'er their doors), t' lieutenant had reckoned upo' stayin' longer wi' ‘em; but he went out betimes o' Tuesday morn‘, an' came back a' ruffled up, an' paid his bill—paid for his breakfast, though he touched noane on it—an' went off i' Rob postman's mail-cart, as starts reg'lar at ten o'clock. Corneys has been theere askin' for him, an' makin' a piece o' work, as he niver went near ‘em; and they bees cousins. Niver a one among ‘em knows as he were here as far as a could mak' out.’
‘Thank yo', Kester,’ said Sylvia, falling back in her chair, as if all the energy that had kept her stiff and upright was gone now that her anxiety was relieved.
She was silent for a long time; her eyes shut, her cheek laid on her child's head. Kester spoke next.
‘A think it's pretty clear as they'n niver met. But it's a' t' more wonder where thy husband's gone to. Thee and him had words about it, and thou telled him thy mind, thou said?’
‘Yes,’ said Sylvia, not moving. ‘I'm afeared lest mother knows what I said to him, there, where she's gone to—I am—’ the tears filled her shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks; ‘and yet it were true, what I said, I cannot forgive him; he's just spoilt my life, and I'm not one-and-twenty yet, and he knowed how wretched, how very wretched, I were. A word fra' him would ha' mended it a'; and Charley had bid him speak the word, and give me his faithful love, and Philip saw my heart ache day after day, and niver let on as him I was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he'd keep true to me, as I were to do
to him.’
‘A wish a'd been theere; a'd ha' felled him to t' ground,’ said Kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation.
Sylvia was silent again: pale and weary she sate, her eyes still shut.
Then she said,
‘Yet he were so good to mother; and mother loved him so. Oh, Kester!’ lifting herself up, opening her great wistful eyes, ‘it's well for folks as can die; they're spared a deal o' misery.’
‘Ay!’ said he. ‘But there's folk as one 'ud like to keep fra' shirkin' their misery. Think yo' now as Philip is livin'?’
Sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied.
‘I dunnot know. I said such things; he deserved ‘em all—’
‘Well, well, lass!’ said Kester, sorry that he had asked the question which was producing so much emotion of one kind or another. ‘Neither thee nor me can tell; we can neither help nor hinder, seein' as he's ta'en hissel' off out on our sight, we'd best not think on him. A'll try an' tell thee some news, if a can think on it wi' my mind so full. Thou knows Haytersbank folk ha' flitted, and t' oud place is empty?’
‘Yes!’ said Sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied out with feeling.
‘A only telled yo' t' account like for me bein' at a loose end i' Monkshaven. My sister, her as lived at Dale End an' is a widow, has corned int' town to live; an' a'm lodgin' wi' her, an' jobbin' about. A'm gettin' pretty well to do, an' a'm noane far t' seek, an' a'm going now: only first a just wanted for t' say as a'm thy oldest friend, a reckon, and if a can do a turn for thee, or go an errand, like as a've done to-day, or if it's any comfort to talk a bit to one who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've only t' send for me, an' a'd come if it were twenty mile. A'm lodgin' at Peggy Dawson's, t' lath and plaster cottage at t' right hand o' t' bridge, a' among t' new houses, as they're thinkin' o' buildin' near t' sea: no one can miss it.’
He stood up and shook hands with her. As he did so, he looked at her sleeping baby.
‘She's liker yo' than him. A think a'll say, God bless her.’
With the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, baby awoke. She ought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and the disturbance made her cry fretfully.
‘Hush thee, darling, hush thee!’ murmured her mother; ‘there's no one left to love me but thee, and I cannot stand thy weeping, my pretty one. Hush thee, my babe, hush thee!’
She whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairs to bed.
About three weeks after the miserable date of Bell Robson's death and Philip's disappearance, Hester Rose received a letter from him. She knew the writing on the address well; and it made her tremble so much that it was many minutes before she dared to open it, and make herself acquainted with the facts it might disclose.
But she need not have feared; there were no facts told, unless the vague date of ‘London' might be something to learn. Even that much might have been found out by the post-mark, only she had been too much taken by surprise to examine it.
It ran as follows:—
‘DEAR HESTER,—
‘Tell those whom it may concern, that I have left Monkshaven for ever. No one need trouble themselves about me; I am provided for. Please to make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the Messrs Foster, and to my partner, William Coulson. Please to accept of my love, and to join the same to your mother. Please to give my particular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt Isabella Robson. Her daughter Sylvia knows what I have always felt, and shall always feel, for her better than I can ever put into language, so I send her no message; God bless and keep my child. You must all look on me as one dead; as I am to you, and maybe shall soon be in reality.
‘Your affectionate and obedient friend to command,
‘PHILIP HEPBURN.
‘P.S.—Oh, Hester! for God's sake and mine, look after (“my wife,” scratched out) Sylvia and my child. I think Jeremiah Foster will help you to be a friend to them. This is the last solemn request of P. H. She is but very young.’
Hester read this letter again and again, till her heart caught the echo of its hopelessness, and sank within her. She put it in her pocket, and reflected upon it all the day long as she served in the shop.
The customers found her as gentle, but far more inattentive than usual. She thought that in the evening she would go across the bridge, and consult with the two good old brothers Foster. But something occurred to put off the fulfilment of this plan.
That same morning Sylvia had preceded her, with no one to consult, because consultation would have required previous confidence, and confidence would have necessitated such a confession about Kin-raid as it was most difficult for Sylvia to make. The poor young wife yet felt that some step must be taken by her; and what it was to be she could not imagine.
She had no home to go to; for as Philip was gone away, she remained where she was only on sufferance; she did not know what means of livelihood she had; she was willing to work, nay, would be thankful to take up her old life of country labour; but with her baby, what could she do?
In this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's kindly speech and offer of assistance, made, it is true, half in joke, at the end of her wedding visit, came into her mind; and she resolved to go and ask for some of the friendly counsel and assistance then offered.
It would be the first time of her going out since her mother's funeral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. More even than on that account did she shrink from going into the streets again. She could not get over the impression that Kinraid must be lingering near; and she distrusted herself so much that it was a positive terror to think of meeting him again. She felt as though, if she but caught a sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard his well-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart would stop, and she should die from very fright of what would come next. Or rather so she felt, and so she thought before she took her baby in her arms, as Nancy gave it to her after putting on its out-of-door attire.
With it in her arms she was protected, and the whole current of her thoughts was changed. The infant was wailing and suffering with its teething, and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing and consoling her moaning child, that the dangerous quay-side and the bridge were passed almost before she was aware; nor did she notice the eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met who recognized her even through the heavy veil which formed part of the draping mourning provided for her by Hester and Coulson, in the first unconscious days after her mother's death.
Though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon Philip's disappearance—warned possibly by Kinraid's story against hasty decisions and judgments in such times as those of war and general disturbance—yet every one agreed that no more pitiful fate could have befallen Philip's wife.
Marked out by her striking beauty as an object of admiring interest even in those days when she sate in girlhood's smiling peace by her mother at the Market Cross—her father had lost his life in a popular cause, and ignominious as the manner of his death might be, he was looked upon as a martyr to his zeal in avenging the wrongs of his townsmen; Sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quiet daily life was well known to them; and now her husband had been carried off from her side just on the very day when she needed his comfort most.
For the general opinion was that Philip had been ‘carried off’—in seaport towns such occurrences were not uncommon in those days—either by land-crimps or water-crimps.2
So Sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one sorely afflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering walk to Jeremiah Foster's.
She had calculated her time so as to fall in with him at his dinner hour, even though it obliged her to go to his own house rather than to the bank where he and his brother spent all the business hours of the day.
Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and the weight of her baby, that all she could do when the door was opened was to totter into the ne
arest seat, sit down, and begin to cry.
In an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her heavy cloak, offering to relieve her of her child, who clung to her all the more firmly, and some one was pressing a glass of wine against her lips.
‘No, sir, I cannot take it! wine allays gives me th' headache; if I might have just a drink o' water. Thank you, ma‘am' (to the respectable-looking old servant), ‘I'm well enough now; and perhaps, sir, I might speak a word with yo', for it's that I've come for.’
‘It's a pity, Sylvia Hepburn, as thee didst not come to me at the bank, for it's been a long toil for thee all this way in the heat, with thy child. But if there's aught I can do or say for thee, thou hast but to name it, I am sure. Martha! wilt thou relieve her of her child while she comes with me into the parlour?’
But the wilful little Bella stoutly refused to go to any one, and Sylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was.
So the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her after-life depended on this trivial fact.
Once installed in the easy-chair, and face to face with Jeremiah, Sylvia did not know how to begin.
Jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover herself, by pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle before the child's eyes, almost within reach of the child's eager little fingers.
‘She favours you a deal,’ said he, at last. ‘More than her father,’ he went on, purposely introducing Philip's name, so as to break the ice; for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him about something connected with her husband.
Still Sylvia said nothing; she was choking down tears and shyness, and unwillingness to take as confidant a man of whom she knew so little, on such slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as the little kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from that house the last time that she entered it.
‘It's no use keeping yo', sir,' she broke out at last. ‘It's about Philip as I corned to speak. Do yo' know any thing whatsomever about him? He niver had a chance o' saying anything, I know; but maybe he's written?’
Sylvia's Lovers Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell Page 48
