CHAPTER XVII
REJECTED WARNINGS
The post arrived at Monkshaven three times in the week; sometimes,indeed, there were not a dozen letters in the bag, which was broughtthither by a man in a light mail-cart, who took the better part of aday to drive from York; dropping private bags here and there on themoors, at some squire's lodge or roadside inn. Of the number ofletters that arrived in Monkshaven, the Fosters, shopkeepers andbankers, had the largest share.
The morning succeeding the day on which Sylvia had engaged herselfto Kinraid, the Fosters seemed unusually anxious to obtain theirletters. Several times Jeremiah came out of the parlour in which hisbrother John was sitting in expectant silence, and, passing throughthe shop, looked up and down the market-place in search of the oldlame woman, who was charitably employed to deliver letters, and whomust have been lamer than ever this morning, to judge from thelateness of her coming. Although none but the Fosters knew the causeof their impatience for their letters, yet there was such tacitsympathy between them and those whom they employed, that Hepburn,Coulson, and Hester were all much relieved when the old woman atlength appeared with her basket of letters.
One of these seemed of especial consequence to the good brothers.They each separately looked at the direction, and then at oneanother; and without a word they returned with it unread into theparlour, shutting the door, and drawing the green silk curtainclose, the better to read it in privacy.
Both Coulson and Philip felt that something unusual was going on,and were, perhaps, as full of consideration as to the possiblecontents of this London letter, as of attention to their moreimmediate business. But fortunately there was little doing in theshop. Philip, indeed, was quite idle when John Foster opened theparlour-door, and, half doubtfully, called him into the room. As thedoor of communication shut the three in, Coulson felt himself alittle aggrieved. A minute ago Philip and he were on a level ofignorance, from which the former was evidently going to be raised.But he soon returned to his usual state of acquiescence in things asthey were, which was partly constitutional, and partly the result ofhis Quaker training.
It was apparently by John Foster's wish that Philip had beensummoned. Jeremiah, the less energetic and decided brother, wasstill discussing the propriety of the step when Philip entered.
'No need for haste, John; better not call the young man till we havefurther considered the matter.'
But the young man was there in presence; and John's will carried theday.
It seemed from his account to Philip (explanatory of what he, inadvance of his brother's slower judgment, thought to be a necessarystep), that the Fosters had for some time received anonymousletters, warning them, with distinct meaning, though in ambiguousterms, against a certain silk-manufacturer in Spitalfields, withwhom they had had straightforward business dealings for many years;but to whom they had latterly advanced money. The letters hinted atthe utter insolvency of this manufacturer. They had urged theircorrespondent to give them his name in confidence, and thismorning's letter had brought it; but the name was totally unknown tothem, though there seemed no reason to doubt the reality of eitherit or the address, the latter of which was given in full. Certaincircumstances were mentioned regarding the transactions between theFosters and this manufacturer, which could be known only to thosewho were in the confidence of one or the other; and to the Fostersthe man was, as has been said, a perfect stranger. Probably, theywould have been unwilling to incur the risk they had done on thismanufacturer Dickinson's account, if it had not been that hebelonged to the same denomination as themselves, and was publiclydistinguished for his excellent and philanthropic character; butthese letters were provocative of anxiety, especially since thismorning's post had brought out the writer's full name, and variousparticulars showing his intimate knowledge of Dickinson's affairs.
After much perplexed consultation, John had hit upon the plan ofsending Hepburn to London to make secret inquiries respecting thetrue character and commercial position of the man whose creditors,not a month ago, they had esteemed it an honour to be.
Even now Jeremiah was ashamed of their want of confidence in one sogood; he believed that the information they had received would allprove a mistake, founded on erroneous grounds, if not a pureinvention of an enemy; and he had only been brought partially toconsent to the sending of Hepburn, by his brother's pledging himselfthat the real nature of Philip's errand should be unknown to anyhuman creature, save them three.
As all this was being revealed to Philip, he sat apparently unmovedand simply attentive. In fact, he was giving all his mind tounderstanding the probabilities of the case, leaving his ownfeelings in the background till his intellect should have done itswork. He said little; but what he did say was to the point, andsatisfied both brothers. John perceived that his messenger wouldexercise penetration and act with energy; while Jeremiah was soothedby Philip's caution in not hastily admitting the probability of anycharge against Dickinson, and in giving full weight to his previousgood conduct and good character.
Philip had the satisfaction of feeling himself employed on a missionwhich would call out his powers, and yet not exceed them. In his ownmind he forestalled the instructions of his masters, and wassilently in advance of John Foster's plans and arrangements, whilehe appeared to listen to all that was said with quiet business-likeattention.
It was settled that the next morning he was to make his waynorthwards to Hartlepool, whence he could easily proceed either byland or sea to Newcastle, from which place smacks were constantlysailing to London. As to his personal conduct and behaviour there,the brothers overwhelmed him with directions and advice; nor didthey fail to draw out of the strong box in the thick wall of theircounting-house a more than sufficient sum of money for all possibleexpenses. Philip had never had so much in his hands before, andhesitated to take it, saying it was more than he should require; butthey repeated, with fresh urgency, their warnings about the terriblehigh prices of London, till he could only resolve to keep a strictaccount, and bring back all that he did not expend, since nothingbut his taking the whole sum would satisfy his employers.
When he was once more behind the counter, he had leisure enough forconsideration as far as Coulson could give it him. The latter wassilent, brooding over the confidence which Philip had apparentlyreceived, but which was withheld from him. He did not yet know ofthe culminating point--of Philip's proposed journey to London; thatgreat city of London, which, from its very inaccessibility fiftyyears ago, loomed so magnificent through the mist of men'simaginations. It is not to be denied that Philip felt exultant atthe mere fact of 'going to London.' But then again, the thought ofleaving Sylvia; of going out of possible daily reach of her; of notseeing her for a week--a fortnight; nay, he might be away for amonth,--for no rash hurry was to mar his delicate negotiation,--gnawedat his heart, and spoilt any enjoyment he might have anticipatedfrom gratified curiosity, or even from the consciousness ofbeing trusted by those whose trust and regard he valued. Thesense of what he was leaving grew upon him the longer he thought onthe subject; he almost wished that he had told his masters earlierin the conversation of his unwillingness to leave Monkshaven for solong a time; and then again he felt that the gratitude he owed themquite prohibited his declining any task they might impose,especially as they had more than once said that it would not do forthem to appear in the affair, and yet that to no one else could theyentrust so difficult and delicate a matter. Several times that day,as he perceived Coulson's jealous sullenness, he thought in hisheart that the consequence of the excessive confidence for whichCoulson envied him was a burden from which he would be thankful tobe relieved.
As they all sat at tea in Alice Rose's house-place, Philip announcedhis intended journey; a piece of intelligence he had notcommunicated earlier to Coulson because he had rather dreaded theincrease of dissatisfaction it was sure to produce, and of which heknew the expression would be restrained by the presence of AliceRose and her daughter.
'To Lunnon!' exclaimed Alice.
Hester said nothing.
'Well! some folks has the luck!' said Coulson.
'Luck!' said Alice, turning sharp round on him. 'Niver let me hearsuch a vain word out o' thy mouth, laddie, again. It's the Lord'sdoing, and luck's the devil's way o' putting it. Maybe it's to tryPhilip he's sent there; happen it may be a fiery furnace to him; forI've heerd tell it's full o' temptations, and he may fall intosin--and then where'd be the "luck" on it? But why art ta going? andthe morning, say'st thou? Why, thy best shirt is in t' suds, and notime for t' starch and iron it. Whatten the great haste as shouldtake thee to Lunnon wi'out thy ruffled shirt?'
'It's none o' my doing,' said Philip; 'there's business to be done,and John Foster says I'm to do it; and I'm to start to-morrow.'
'I'll not turn thee out wi'out thy ruffled shirt, if I sit up a'neet,' said Alice, resolutely.
'Niver fret thyself, mother, about t' shirt,' said Philip. 'If Ineed a shirt, London's not what I take it for if I can't buy mysel'one ready-made.'
'Hearken to him!' said Alice. 'He speaks as if buying o' ready-madeshirts were nought to him, and he wi' a good half-dozen as I mademysel'. Eh, lad? but if that's the frame o' mind thou'rt in, Lunnonis like for to be a sore place o' temptation. There's pitfalls formen, and traps for money at ivery turn, as I've heerd say. It wouldha' been better if John Foster had sent an older man on hisbusiness, whativer it be.'
'They seem to make a deal o' Philip all on a sudden,' said Coulson.'He's sent for, and talked to i' privacy, while Hester and me isleft i' t' shop for t' bear t' brunt o' t' serving.'
'Philip knows,' said Hester, and then, somehow, her voice failed herand she stopped.
Philip paid no attention to this half-uttered sentence; he was eagerto tell Coulson, as far as he could do so without betraying hismaster's secret, how many drawbacks there were to his proposedjourney, in the responsibility which it involved, and hisunwillingness to leave Monkshaven: he said--
'Coulson, I'd give a deal it were thou that were going, and not me.At least, there is many a time I'd give a deal. I'll not deny but atother times I'm pleased at the thought on't. But, if I could I'dchange places wi' thee at this moment.'
'It's fine talking,' said Coulson, half mollified, and yet notcaring to show it. 'I make no doubt it were an even chance betwixtus two at first, which on us was to go; but somehow thou got thestart and thou'st stuck to it till it's too late for aught but tosay thou's sorry.'
'Nay, William,' said Philip, rising, 'it's an ill look-out for thefuture, if thee and me is to quarrel, like two silly wenches, o'ereach bit of pleasure, or what thou fancies to be pleasure, as fallsin t' way of either on us. I've said truth to thee, and played theefair, and I've got to go to Haytersbank for to wish 'em good-by, soI'll not stay longer here to be misdoubted by thee.'
He took his cap and was gone, not heeding Alice's shrill inquiry asto his clothes and his ruffled shirt. Coulson sat still, penitentand ashamed; at length he stole a look at Hester. She was playingwith her teaspoon, but he could see that she was choking down hertears; he could not choose but force her to speak with an ill-timedquestion.
'What's to do, Hester?' said he.
She lifted up those eyes, usually so soft and serene; now they werefull of the light of indignation shining through tears.
'To do!' she said; 'Coulson, I'd thought better of thee, going anddoubting and envying Philip, as niver did thee an ill turn, or saidan ill word, or thought an ill thought by thee; and sending him awayout o' t' house this last night of all, may-be, wi' thy envyings andjealousy.'
She hastily got up and left the room. Alice was away, looking upPhilip's things for his journey. Coulson remained alone, feelinglike a guilty child, but dismayed by Hester's words, even more thanby his own regret at what he had said.
Philip walked rapidly up the hill-road towards Haytersbank. He waschafed and excited by Coulson's words, and the events of the day. Hehad meant to shape his life, and now it was, as it were, beingshaped for him, and yet he was reproached for the course it wastaking, as much as though he were an active agent; accused of takingadvantage over Coulson, his intimate companion for years; he whoesteemed himself above taking an unfair advantage over any man! Hisfeeling on the subject was akin to that of Hazael, 'Is thy servant adog that he should do this thing?'
His feelings, disturbed on this one point, shook his judgment offits balance on another. The resolution he had deliberately formed ofnot speaking to Sylvia on the subject of his love till he couldannounce to her parents the fact of his succession to Fosters'business, and till he had patiently, with long-continuing and deepaffection, worked his way into her regard, was set aside during thepresent walk. He would speak to her of his passionate attachment,before he left, for an uncertain length of time, and the certaindistance of London. And all the modification on this point which hisjudgment could obtain from his impetuous and excited heart was, thathe would watch her words and manner well when he announced hisapproaching absence, and if in them he read the slightest token oftender regretful feeling, he would pour out his love at her feet,not even urging the young girl to make any return, or to express thefeelings of which he hoped the germ was already budding in her. Hewould be patient with her; he could not be patient himself. Hisheart beating, his busy mind rehearsing the probable coming scene,he turned into the field-path that led to Haytersbank. Coming alongit, and so meeting him, advanced Daniel Robson, in earnest talk withCharley Kinraid. Kinraid, then, had been at the farm: Kinraid hadbeen seeing Sylvia, her mother away. The thought of poor dead AnnieCoulson flashed into Philip's mind. Could he be playing the samegame with Sylvia? Philip set his teeth and tightened his lips at thethought of it. They had stopped talking; they had seen him already,or his impulse would have been to dodge behind the wall and avoidthem; even though one of his purposes in going to Haytersbank hadbeen to bid his uncle farewell.
Kinraid took him by surprise from the hearty greeting he gave him,and which Philip would fain have avoided. But the specksioneer wasfull of kindliness towards all the world, especially towards allSylvia's friends, and, convinced of her great love towards himself,had forgotten any previous jealousy of Philip. Secure and exultant,his broad, handsome, weather-bronzed face was as great a contrast toPhilip's long, thoughtful, sallow countenance, as his frank mannerwas to the other's cold reserve. It was some minutes before Hepburncould bring himself to tell the great event that was about to befallhim before this third person whom he considered as an intrusivestranger. But as Kinraid seemed to have no idea of going on, and asthere really was no reason why he and all the world should not knowof Philip's intentions, he told his uncle that he was bound forLondon the next day on business connected with the Fosters.
Daniel was deeply struck with the fact that he was talking to a mansetting off for London at a day's notice.
'Thou'll niver tell me this hasn't been brewin' longer nor twelvehours; thou's a sly close chap, and we hannot seen thee thisse'nnight; thou'll ha' been thinkin' on this, and cogitating it,may-be, a' that time.'
'Nay,' said Philip, 'I knew nought about it last night; it's none o'my doing, going, for I'd liefer ha' stayed where I am.'
'Yo'll like it when once yo're there,' said Kinraid, with atravelled air of superiority, as Philip fancied.
'No, I shan't,' he replied, shortly. 'Liking has nought to do withit.'
'Ah' yo' knew nought about it last neet,' continued Daniel,musingly. 'Well, life's soon o'er; else when I were a young fellow,folks made their wills afore goin' to Lunnon.'
'Yet I'll be bound to say yo' niver made a will before going tosea,' said Philip, half smiling.
'Na, na; but that's quite another mak' o' thing; going' to sea comesnatteral to a man, but goin' to Lunnon,--I were once there, and werenear deafened wi' t' throng and t' sound. I were but two hours i' t'place, though our ship lay a fortneet off Gravesend.'
Kinraid now seemed in a hurry; but Philip was stung with curiosityto ascertain his movements, and suddenly addressed him:
'I heard yo' were i' these pa
rts. Are you for staying here long?'
There was a certain abruptness in Philip's tone, if not in hiswords, which made Kinraid look in his face with surprise, and answerwith equal curtness.
'I'm off i' th' morning; and sail for the north seas day after.'
He turned away, and began to whistle, as if he did not wish for anyfurther conversation with his interrogator. Philip, indeed, hadnothing more to say to him: he had learned all he wanted to know.
'I'd like to bid good-by to Sylvie. Is she at home?' he asked of herfather.
'A'm thinking thou'll not find her. She'll be off to Yesterbarrow t'see if she'd get a settin' o' their eggs; her grey speckled hen iscluckin', and nought 'll serve our Sylvia but their eggs to set herupon. But, for a' that, she mayn't be gone yet. Best go on and seefor thysel'.'
So they parted; but Philip had not gone many steps before his unclecalled him back, Kinraid slowly loitering on meanwhile. Robson wasfumbling among some dirty papers he had in an old leather case,which he had produced out of his pocket.
'Fact is, Philip, t' pleugh's in a bad way, gearin' and a', an' folkis talkin' on a new kind o' mak'; and if thou's bound for York---'
'I'm not going by York; I'm going by a Newcastle smack.'
'Newcassel--Newcassel--it's pretty much t' same. Here, lad, thou canread print easy; it's a bit as was cut out on a papper; there'sNewcassel, and York, and Durham, and a vast more towns named, wheerefolk can learn a' about t' new mak' o' pleugh.'
'I see,' said Philip: '"Robinson, Side, Newcastle, can give allrequisite information."'
'Ay, ay,' said Robson; 'thou's hit t' marrow on t' matter. Now, ifthou'rt i' Newcassel, thou can learn all about it; thou'rt littlebetter nor a woman, for sure, bein' mainly acquaint wi' ribbons, butthey'll tell thee--they'll tell thee, lad; and write down what theysayn, and what's to be t' price, and look sharp as to what kind o'folk they are as sells 'em, an' write and let me know. Thou'll be i'Newcassel to-morrow, may-be? Well, then, I'll reckon to hear fro'thee in a week, or, mayhap, less,--for t' land is backward, and I'dlike to know about t' pleughs. I'd a month's mind to write toBrunton, as married Molly Corney, but writin' is more i' thy way an't' parson's nor mine; and if thou sells ribbons, Brunton sellscheese, and that's no better.'
Philip promised to do his best, and to write word to Robson, who,satisfied with his willingness to undertake the commission, bade himgo on and see if he could not find the lass. Her father was right insaying that she might not have set out for Yesterbarrow. She hadtalked about it to Kinraid and her father in order to cover herregret at her lover's accompanying her father to see some new kindof harpoon about which the latter had spoken. But as soon as theyhad left the house, and she had covertly watched them up the brow inthe field, she sate down to meditate and dream about her greathappiness in being beloved by her hero, Charley Kinraid. No gloomydread of his long summer's absence; no fear of the cold, glitteringicebergs bearing mercilessly down on the _Urania_, nor shudderinganticipation of the dark waves of evil import, crossed her mind. Heloved her, and that was enough. Her eyes looked, trance-like, into adim, glorious future of life; her lips, still warm and reddened byhis kiss, were just parted in a happy smile, when she was startledby the sound of an approaching footstep--a footstep quite familiarenough for her to recognize it, and which was unwelcome now, asdisturbing her in the one blessed subject of thought in which aloneshe cared to indulge.
'Well, Philip! an' what brings _yo'_ here?' was her ratherungracious greeting.
'Why, Sylvie, are yo' sorry to see me?' asked Philip, reproachfully.But she turned it off with assumed lightness.
'Oh, yes,' said she. 'I've been wanting yo' this week past wi' t'match to my blue ribbon yo' said yo'd get and bring me next time yo'came.'
'I've forgotten it, Sylvie. It's clean gone out of my mind,' saidPhilip, with true regret. 'But I've had a deal to think on,' hecontinued, penitently, as if anxious to be forgiven. Sylvia did notwant his penitence, did not care for her ribbon, was troubled by hisearnestness of manner--but he knew nothing of all that; he only knewthat she whom he loved had asked him to do something for her, and hehad neglected it; so, anxious to be excused and forgiven, he went onwith the apology she cared not to hear.
If she had been less occupied with her own affairs, less engrossedwith deep feeling, she would have reproached him, if only in jest,for his carelessness. As it was, she scarcely took in the sense ofhis words.
'You see, Sylvie, I've had a deal to think on; before long I intendtelling yo' all about it; just now I'm not free to do it. And when aman's mind is full o' business, most particular when it's otherfolk's as is trusted to him, he seems to lose count on the verythings he'd most care for at another time.' He paused a little.
Sylvia's galloping thoughts were pulled suddenly up by his silence;she felt that he wanted her to say something, but she could think ofnothing besides an ambiguous--
'Well?'
'And I'm off to London i' t' morning,' added he, a little wistfully,almost as if beseeching her to show or express some sorrow at ajourney, the very destination of which showed that he would beabsent for some time.
'To Lunnon!' said she, with some surprise. 'Yo're niver thinking o'going to live theere, for sure!'
Surprise, and curiosity, and wonder; nothing more, as Philip'sinstinct told him. But he reasoned that first correct impressionaway with ingenious sophistry.
'Not to live there: only to stay for some time. I shall be back, Ireckon, in a month or so.'
'Oh! that's nought of a going away,' said she, rather petulantly.'Them as goes to t' Greenland seas has to bide away for six monthsand more,' and she sighed.
Suddenly a light shone down into Philip's mind. His voice waschanged as he spoke next.
'I met that good-for-nothing chap, Kinraid, wi' yo'r father justnow. He'll ha' been here, Sylvie?'
She stooped for something she had dropped, and came up red as arose.
'To be sure; what then?' And she eyed him defiantly, though in herheart she trembled, she knew not why.
'What then? and yo'r mother away. He's no company for such as thee,at no time, Sylvie.'
'Feyther and me chooses our own company, without iver asking leaveo' yo',' said Sylvia, hastily arranging the things in the littlewooden work-box that was on the table, preparatory to putting itaway. At the time, in his agitation, he saw, but did not affix anymeaning to it, that the half of some silver coin was among thecontents thus turned over before the box was locked.
'But thy mother wouldn't like it, Sylvie; he's played false wi'other lasses, he'll be playing thee false some o' these days, ifthou lets him come about thee. He went on wi' Annie Coulson,William's sister, till he broke her heart; and sin then he's been onwi' others.'
'I dunnot believe a word on 't,' said Sylvia, standing up, allaflame.
'I niver telled a lie i' my life,' said Philip, almost choking withgrief at her manner to him, and the regard for his rival which shebetrayed. 'It were Willie Coulson as telled me, as solemn andserious as one man can speak to another; and he said it weren't thefirst nor the last time as he had made his own game with youngwomen.'
'And how dare yo' come here to me wi' yo'r backbiting tales?' saidSylvia, shivering all over with passion.
Philip tried to keep calm, and to explain.
'It were yo'r own mother, Sylvia, as knowed yo' had no brother, orany one to see after yo'; and yo' so pretty, so pretty, Sylvia,' hecontinued, shaking his head, sadly, 'that men run after yo' againsttheir will, as one may say; and yo'r mother bade me watch o'er yeand see what company yo' kept, and who was following after yo', andto warn yo', if need were.'
'My mother niver bade yo' to come spying after me, and blaming mefor seeing a lad as my feyther thinks well on. An' I don't believe aword about Annie Coulson; an' I'm not going to suffer yo' to comewi' yo'r tales to me; say 'em out to his face, and hear what he'llsay to yo'.'
'Sylvie, Sylvie,' cried poor Philip, as his offended cousin rushedpast him, and upstairs to her little bedroom, wh
ere he heard thesound of the wooden bolt flying into its place. He could hear herfeet pacing quickly about through the unceiled rafters. He satestill in despair, his head buried in his two hands. He sate till itgrew dusk, dark; the wood fire, not gathered together by carefulhands, died out into gray ashes. Dolly Reid had done her work andgone home. There were but Philip and Sylvia in the house. He knew heought to be going home, for he had much to do, and many arrangementsto make. Yet it seemed as though he could not stir. At length heraised his stiffened body, and stood up, dizzy. Up the little woodenstairs he went, where he had never been before, to the small squarelanding, almost filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. Hebreathed hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of Sylvia'sroom.
'Sylvie! I'm going away; say good-by.' No answer. Not a sound heard.'Sylvie!' (a little louder, and less hoarsely spoken). There was noreply. 'Sylvie! I shall be a long time away; perhaps I may nivercome back at all'; here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death.'Say good-by.' No answer. He waited patiently. Can she be weariedout, and gone to sleep, he wondered. Yet once again--'Good-by,Sylvie, and God bless yo'! I'm sorry I vexed yo'.'
No reply.
With a heavy, heavy heart he creaked down the stairs, felt for hiscap, and left the house.
'She's warned, any way,' thought he. Just at that moment the littlecasement window of Sylvia's room was opened, and she said--
'Good-by, Philip!'
The window was shut again as soon as the words were spoken. Philipknew the uselessness of remaining; the need for his departure; andyet he stood still for a little time like one entranced, as if hiswill had lost all power to compel him to leave the place. Those twowords of hers, which two hours before would have been so far beneathhis aspirations, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproachor blame.
'She's but a young lassie,' said he to himself; 'an' Kinraid hasbeen playing wi' her, as such as he can't help doing, once they getamong the women. An' I came down sudden on her about Annie Coulson,and touched her pride. Maybe, too, it were ill advised to tell herhow her mother was feared for her. I couldn't ha' left the placeto-morrow if he'd been biding here; but he's off for half a year orso, and I'll be home again as soon as iver I can. In half a yearsuch as he forgets, if iver he's thought serious about her; but ina' my lifetime, if I live to fourscore, I can niver forget. Godbless her for saying, "Good-by, Philip."' He repeated the wordsaloud in fond mimicry of her tones: 'Good-by, Philip.'