CHAPTER XXX
HAPPY DAYS
And now Philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could desire. Thebusiness flourished, and money beyond his moderate wants came in. Asfor himself he required very little; but he had always lookedforward to placing his idol in a befitting shrine; and means forthis were now furnished to him. The dress, the comforts, theposition he had desired for Sylvia were all hers. She did not needto do a stroke of household work if she preferred to 'sit in herparlour and sew up a seam'. Indeed Phoebe resented any interferencein the domestic labour, which she had performed so long, that shelooked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her own. 'MrsHepburn' (as Sylvia was now termed) had a good dark silk gown-piecein her drawers, as well as the poor dove-coloured, against the daywhen she chose to leave off mourning; and stuff for either gray orscarlet cloaks was hers at her bidding.
What she cared for far more were the comforts with which it was inher power to surround her mother. In this Philip vied with her; forbesides his old love, and new pity for his aunt Bell, he neverforgot how she had welcomed him to Haytersbank, and favoured hislove to Sylvia, in the yearning days when he little hoped he shouldever win his cousin to be his wife. But even if he had not had thesegrateful and affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, he wouldhave done much for her if only to gain the sweet, rare smiles whichhis wife never bestowed upon him so freely as when she saw himattending to 'mother,' for so both of them now called Bell. For hercreature comforts, her silk gowns, and her humble luxury, Sylvia didnot care; Philip was almost annoyed at the indifference she oftenmanifested to all his efforts to surround her with such things. Itwas even a hardship to her to leave off her country dress, heruncovered hair, her linsey petticoat, and loose bed-gown, and to dona stiff and stately gown for her morning dress. Sitting in the darkparlour at the back of the shop, and doing 'white work,' was muchmore wearying to her than running out into the fields to bring upthe cows, or spinning wool, or making up butter. She sometimesthought to herself that it was a strange kind of life where therewere no out-door animals to look after; the 'ox and the ass' hadhitherto come into all her ideas of humanity; and her care andgentleness had made the dumb creatures round her father's home intomute friends with loving eyes, looking at her as if wistful to speakin words the grateful regard that she could read without the poorexpression of language.
She missed the free open air, the great dome of sky above thefields; she rebelled against the necessity of 'dressing' (as shecalled it) to go out, although she acknowledged that it was anecessity where the first step beyond the threshold must be into apopulous street.
It is possible that Philip was right at one time when he had thoughtto win her by material advantages; but the old vanities had beenburnt out of her by the hot iron of acute suffering. A great deal ofpassionate feeling still existed, concealed and latent; but at thisperiod it appeared as though she were indifferent to most things,and had lost the power of either hoping or fearing much. She wasstunned into a sort of temporary numbness on most points; those onwhich she was sensitive being such as referred to the injustice andoppression of her father's death, or anything that concerned hermother.
She was quiet even to passiveness in all her dealings with Philip;he would have given not a little for some of the old bursts ofimpatience, the old pettishness, which, naughty as they were, hadgone to form his idea of the former Sylvia. Once or twice he wasalmost vexed with her for her docility; he wanted her so much tohave a will of her own, if only that he might know how to rouse herto pleasure by gratifying it. Indeed he seldom fell asleep at nightswithout his last thoughts being devoted to some little plan for themorrow, that he fancied she would like; and when he wakened in theearly dawn he looked to see if she were indeed sleeping by his side,or whether it was not all a dream that he called Sylvia 'wife.'
He was aware that her affection for him was not to be spoken of inthe same way as his for her, but he found much happiness in onlybeing allowed to love and cherish her; and with the patientperseverance that was one remarkable feature in his character, hewent on striving to deepen and increase her love when most other menwould have given up the endeavour, made themselves content with halfa heart, and turned to some other object of attainment. All thistime Philip was troubled by a dream that recurred whenever he wasover-fatigued, or otherwise not in perfect health. Over and overagain in this first year of married life he dreamt this dream;perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never varied. It wasalways of Kinraid's return; Kinraid was full of life in Philip'sdream, though in his waking hours he could and did convince himselfby all the laws of probability that his rival was dead. He neverremembered the exact sequence of events in that terrible dream afterhe had roused himself, with a fight and a struggle, from hisfeverish slumbers. He was generally sitting up in bed when he foundhimself conscious, his heart beating wildly, with a conviction ofKinraid's living presence somewhere near him in the darkness.Occasionally Sylvia was disturbed by his agitation, and wouldquestion him about his dreams, having, like most of her class atthat time, great faith in their prophetic interpretation; but Philipnever gave her any truth in his reply.
After all, and though he did not acknowledge it even to himself, thelong-desired happiness was not so delicious and perfect as he hadanticipated. Many have felt the same in their first year of marriedlife; but the faithful, patient nature that still works on, strivingto gain love, and capable itself of steady love all the while, is agift not given to all.
For many weeks after their wedding, Kester never came near them: achance word or two from Sylvia showed Philip that she had noticedthis and regretted it; and, accordingly, he made it his business atthe next leisure opportunity to go to Haytersbank (never saying aword to his wife of his purpose), and seek out Kester.
All the whole place was altered! It was new white-washed, newthatched: the patches of colour in the surrounding ground werechanged with altered tillage; the great geraniums were gone from thewindow, and instead, was a smart knitted blind. Children playedbefore the house-door; a dog lying on the step flew at Philip; allwas so strange, that it was even the strangest thing of all forKester to appear where everything else was so altered!
Philip had to put up with a good deal of crabbed behaviour on thepart of the latter before he could induce Kester to promise to comedown into the town and see Sylvia in her new home.
Somehow, the visit when paid was but a failure; at least, it seemedso at the time, though probably it broke the ice of restraint whichwas forming over the familiar intercourse between Kester and Sylvia.The old servant was daunted by seeing Sylvia in a strange place, andstood, sleeking his hair down, and furtively looking about him,instead of seating himself on the chair Sylvia had so eagerlybrought forward for him.
Then his sense of the estrangement caused by their new positionsinfected her, and she began to cry pitifully, saying,--
'Oh, Kester! Kester! tell me about Haytersbank! Is it just as itused to be in feyther's days?'
'Well, a cannot say as it is,' said Kester, thankful to have asubject started. 'They'n pleughed up t' oud pasture-field, and aresettin' it for 'taters. They're not for much cattle, isn'tHigginses. They'll be for corn in t' next year, a reckon, andthey'll just ha' their pains for their payment. But they're allaysso pig-headed, is folk fra' a distance.'
So they went on discoursing on Haytersbank and the old days, tillBell Robson, having finished her afternoon nap, came slowlydown-stairs to join them; and after that the conversation became sobroken up, from the desire of the other two to attend and reply asbest they could to her fragmentary and disjointed talk, that Kestertook his leave before long; falling, as he did so, into the formaland unnaturally respectful manner which he had adopted on firstcoming in.
But Sylvia ran after him, and brought him back from the door.
'To think of thy going away, Kester, without either bit or drink;nay, come back wi' thee, and taste wine and cake.'
Kester stood at the door, half shy, half pleased, while Sylvia, inall the glow
and hurry of a young housekeeper's hospitality, soughtfor the decanter of wine, and a wine-glass in the corner cupboard,and hastily cut an immense wedge of cake, which she crammed into hishand in spite of his remonstrances; and then she poured him out anoverflowing glass of wine, which Kester would far rather have gonewithout, as he knew manners too well to suppose that he might tasteit without having gone through the preliminary ceremony of wishingthe donor health and happiness. He stood red and half smiling, withhis cake in one hand, his wine in the other, and then began,--
'Long may ye live, Happy may ye he, And blest with a num'rous Pro-ge-ny.'
'Theere, that's po'try for yo' as I larnt i' my youth. But there's adeal to be said as cannot be put int' po'try, an' yet a cannot sayit, somehow. It 'd tax a parson t' say a' as a've getten i' my mind.It's like a heap o' woo' just after shearin' time; it's worth adeal, but it tak's a vast o' combin', an' cardin', an' spinnin'afore it can be made use on. If a were up to t' use o' words, acould say a mighty deal; but somehow a'm tongue-teed when a come towant my words most, so a'll only just mak' bold t' say as a thinkyo've done pretty well for yo'rsel', getten a house-full o'furniture' (looking around him as he said this), 'an' vittle an'clothin' for t' axing, belike, an' a home for t' missus in her timeo' need; an' mebbe not such a bad husband as a once thought yon man'ud mak'; a'm not above sayin' as he's, mebbe, better nor a took himfor;--so here's to ye both, and wishin' ye health and happiness, ay,and money to buy yo' another, as country folk say.'
Having ended his oration, much to his own satisfaction, Kestertossed off his glass of wine, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth withthe back of his hand, pocketed his cake, and made off.
That night Sylvia spoke of his visit to her husband. Philip neversaid how he himself had brought it to pass, nor did he name the factthat he had heard the old man come in just as he himself hadintended going into the parlour for tea, but had kept away, as hethought Sylvia and Kester would most enjoy their interviewundisturbed. And Sylvia felt as if her husband's silence wasunsympathizing, and shut up the feelings that were just beginning toexpand towards him. She sank again into the listless state ofindifference from which nothing but some reference to former days,or present consideration for her mother, could rouse her.
Hester was almost surprised at Sylvia's evident liking for her. Byslow degrees Hester was learning to love the woman, whose positionas Philip's wife she would have envied so keenly had she not been sotruly good and pious. But Sylvia seemed as though she had givenHester her whole affection all at once. Hester could not understandthis, while she was touched and melted by the trust it implied. Forone thing Sylvia remembered and regretted--her harsh treatment ofHester the rainy, stormy night on which the latter had come toHaytersbank to seek her and her mother, and bring them intoMonkshaven to see the imprisoned father and husband. Sylvia had beenstruck with Hester's patient endurance of her rudeness, a rudenesswhich she was conscious that she herself should have immediately andvehemently resented. Sylvia did not understand how a totallydifferent character from hers might immediately forgive the angershe could not forget; and because Hester had been so meek at thetime, Sylvia, who knew how passing and transitory was her own anger,thought that all was forgotten; while Hester believed that thewords, which she herself could not have uttered except under deepprovocation, meant much more than they did, and admired and wonderedat Sylvia for having so entirely conquered her anger against her.
Again, the two different women were divergently affected by theextreme fondness which Bell had shown towards Hester ever sinceSylvia's wedding-day. Sylvia, who had always received more love fromothers than she knew what to do with, had the most entire faith inher own supremacy in her mother's heart, though at times Hesterwould do certain things more to the poor old woman's satisfaction.Hester, who had craved for the affection which had been withheldfrom her, and had from that one circumstance become distrustful ofher own power of inspiring regard, while she exaggerated the delightof being beloved, feared lest Sylvia should become jealous of hermother's open display of great attachment and occasional preferencefor Hester. But such a thought never entered Sylvia's mind. She wasmore thankful than she knew how to express towards any one who madeher mother happy; as has been already said, the contributing to BellRobson's pleasures earned Philip more of his wife's smiles thananything else. And Sylvia threw her whole heart into the words andcaresses she lavished on Hester whenever poor Mrs. Robson spoke ofthe goodness and kindness of the latter. Hester attributed morevirtue to these sweet words and deeds of gratitude than theydeserved; they did not imply in Sylvia any victory over eviltemptation, as they would have done in Hester.
It seemed to be Sylvia's fate to captivate more people than shecared to like back again. She turned the heads of John and JeremiahFoster, who could hardly congratulate Philip enough on his choice ofa wife.
They had been prepared to be critical on one who had interfered withtheir favourite project of a marriage between Philip and Hester;and, though full of compassion for the cruelty of Daniel Robson'sfate, they were too completely men of business not to have someapprehension that the connection of Philip Hepburn with the daughterof a man who was hanged, might injure the shop over which both hisand their name appeared. But all the possible proprieties demandedthat they should pay attention to the bride of their former shopmanand present successor; and the very first visitors whom Sylvia hadreceived after her marriage had been John and Jeremiah Foster, intheir sabbath-day clothes. They found her in the parlour (sofamiliar to both of them!) clear-starching her mother's caps, whichhad to be got up in some particular fashion that Sylvia was afraidof dictating to Phoebe.
She was a little disturbed at her visitors discovering her at thisemployment; but she was on her own ground, and that gave herself-possession; and she welcomed the two old men so sweetly andmodestly, and looked so pretty and feminine, and, besides, sonotable in her handiwork, that she conquered all their prejudices atone blow; and their first thought on leaving the shop was how to doher honour, by inviting her to a supper party at Jeremiah Foster'shouse.
Sylvia was dismayed when she was bidden to this wedding feast, andPhilip had to use all his authority, though tenderly, to make herconsent to go at all. She had been to merry country parties like theCorneys', and to bright haymaking romps in the open air; but neverto a set stately party at a friend's house.
She would fain have made attendance on her mother an excuse; butPhilip knew he must not listen to any such plea, and applied toHester in the dilemma, asking her to remain with Mrs. Robson while heand Sylvia went out visiting; and Hester had willingly, nay, eagerlyconsented--it was much more to her taste than going out.
So Philip and Sylvia set out, arm-in-arm, down Bridge Street, acrossthe bridge, and then clambered up the hill. On the way he gave herthe directions she asked for about her behaviour as bride and mosthonoured guest; and altogether succeeded, against his intention andwill, in frightening her so completely as to the grandeur andimportance of the occasion, and the necessity of remembering certainset rules, and making certain set speeches and attending to themwhen the right time came, that, if any one so naturally gracefulcould have been awkward, Sylvia would have been so that night.
As it was, she sate, pale and weary-looking, on the very edge of herchair; she uttered the formal words which Philip had told her wereappropriate to the occasion, and she heartily wished herself safe athome and in bed. Yet she left but one unanimous impression on thecompany when she went away, namely, that she was the prettiest andbest-behaved woman they had ever seen, and that Philip Hepburn haddone well in choosing her, felon's daughter though she might be.
Both the hosts had followed her into the lobby to help Philip incloaking her, and putting on her pattens. They were full ofold-fashioned compliments and good wishes; one speech of theirs cameup to her memory in future years:--
'Now, Sylvia Hepburn,' said Jeremiah, 'I've known thy husband long,and I don't say but what thou hast done well in choosing him; but ifhe ever neglects or ill-uses thee, com
e to me, and I'll give him asound lecture on his conduct. Mind, I'm thy friend from this dayforrards, and ready to take thy part against him!'
Philip smiled as if the day would never come when he should neglector ill-use his darling; Sylvia smiled a little, without muchattending to, or caring for, the words that were detaining her,tired as she was; John and Jeremiah chuckled over the joke; but thewords came up again in after days, as words idly spoken sometimesdo.
Before the end of that first year, Philip had learnt to be jealousof his wife's new love for Hester. To the latter, Sylvia gave thefree confidence on many things which Philip fancied she withheldfrom him. A suspicion crossed his mind, from time to time, thatSylvia might speak of her former lover to Hester. It would be notunnatural, he thought, if she did so, believing him to be dead; butthe idea irritated him.
He was entirely mistaken, however; Sylvia, with all her apparentfrankness, kept her deep sorrows to herself. She never mentioned herfather's name, though he was continually present to her mind. Nordid she speak of Kinraid to human being, though, for his sake, hervoice softened when, by chance, she spoke to a passing sailor; andfor his sake her eyes lingered on such men longer than on others,trying to discover in them something of the old familiar gait; andpartly for his dead sake, and partly because of the freedom of theoutlook and the freshness of the air, she was glad occasionally toescape from the comfortable imprisonment of her 'parlour', and theclose streets around the market-place, and to mount the cliffs andsit on the turf, gazing abroad over the wide still expanse of theopen sea; for, at that height, even breaking waves only looked likebroken lines of white foam on the blue watery plain.
She did not want any companion on these rambles, which had somewhatof the delight of stolen pleasures; for all the other respectablematrons and town-dwellers whom she knew were content to have alwaysa business object for their walk, or else to stop at home in theirown households; and Sylvia was rather ashamed of her own yearningsfor solitude and open air, and the sight and sound of themother-like sea. She used to take off her hat, and sit there, herhands clasping her knees, the salt air lifting her bright curls,gazing at the distant horizon over the sea, in a sad dreaminess ofthought; if she had been asked on what she meditated, she could nothave told you.
But, by-and-by, the time came when she was a prisoner in the house;a prisoner in her room, lying in bed with a little baby by herside--her child, Philip's child. His pride, his delight knew nobounds; this was a new fast tie between them; this would reconcileher to the kind of life that, with all its respectability andcomfort, was so different from what she had lived before, and whichPhilip had often perceived that she felt to be dull and restraining.He already began to trace in the little girl, only a few days old,the lovely curves that he knew so well by heart in the mother'sface. Sylvia, too, pale, still, and weak, was very happy; yes,really happy for the first time since her irrevocable marriage. Forits irrevocableness had weighed much upon her with a sense of dullhopelessness; she felt all Philip's kindness, she was grateful tohim for his tender regard towards her mother, she was learning tolove him as well as to like and respect him. She did not know whatelse she could have done but marry so true a friend, and she and hermother so friendless; but, at the same time, it was like lead on hermorning spirits when she awoke and remembered that the decision wasmade, the dead was done, the choice taken which comes to most peoplebut once in their lives. Now the little baby came in upon this stateof mind like a ray of sunlight into a gloomy room.
Even her mother was rejoiced and proud; even with her crazed brainand broken heart, the sight of sweet, peaceful infancy brought lightto her. All the old ways of holding a baby, of hushing it to sleep,of tenderly guarding its little limbs from injury, came back, likethe habits of her youth, to Bell; and she was never so happy or soeasy in her mind, or so sensible and connected in her ideas, as whenshe had Sylvia's baby in her arms.
It was a pretty sight to see, however familiar to all of us suchthings may be--the pale, worn old woman, in her quaint,old-fashioned country dress, holding the little infant on her knees,looking at its open, unspeculative eyes, and talking the littlelanguage to it as though it could understand; the father on hisknees, kept prisoner by a small, small finger curled round hisstrong and sinewy one, and gazing at the tiny creature withwondering idolatry; the young mother, fair, pale, and smiling,propped up on pillows in order that she, too, might see thewonderful babe; it was astonishing how the doctor could come and gowithout being drawn into the admiring vortex, and look at this babyjust as if babies came into the world every day.
'Philip,' said Sylvia, one night, as he sate as still as a mouse inher room, imagining her to be asleep. He was by her bed-side in amoment.
'I've been thinking what she's to be called. Isabella, after mother;and what were yo'r mother's name?'
'Margaret,' said he.
'Margaret Isabella; Isabella Margaret. Mother's called Bell. Shemight be called Bella.'
'I could ha' wished her to be called after thee.'
She made a little impatient movement.
'Nay; Sylvia's not a lucky name. Best be called after thy mother andmine. And I want for to ask Hester to be godmother.'
'Anything thou likes, sweetheart. Shall we call her Rose, afterHester Rose?'
'No, no!' said Sylvia; 'she mun be called after my mother, or thine,or both. I should like her to be called Bella, after mother, becauseshe's so fond of baby.'
'Anything to please thee, darling.'
'Don't say that as if it didn't signify; there's a deal in having apretty name,' said Sylvia, a little annoyed. 'I ha' allays hatedbeing called Sylvia. It were after father's mother, Sylvia Steele.'
'I niver thought any name in a' the world so sweet and pretty asSylvia,' said Philip, fondly; but she was too much absorbed in herown thoughts to notice either his manner or his words.
'There, yo'll not mind if it is Bella, because yo' see my mother isalive to be pleased by its being named after her, and Hester may begodmother, and I'll ha' t' dove-coloured silk as yo' gave me aforewe were married made up into a cloak for it to go to church in.'
'I got it for thee,' said Philip, a little disappointed. 'It'll betoo good for the baby.'
'Eh! but I'm so careless, I should be spilling something on it? Butif thou got it for me I cannot find i' my heart for t' wear it onbaby, and I'll have it made into a christening gown for mysel'. ButI'll niver feel at my ease in it, for fear of spoiling it.'
'Well! an' if thou does spoil it, love, I'll get thee another. Imake account of riches only for thee; that I may be able to get theewhativer thou's a fancy for, for either thysel', or thy mother.'
She lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put up her lips tokiss him for these words.
Perhaps on that day Philip reached the zenith of his life'shappiness.