CHAPTER XXXVI
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS
That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the kitchen-door.Phoebe opened it. He asked to see Sylvia.
'A know not if she'll see thee,' said Phoebe. 'There's no makin' herout; sometimes she's for one thing, sometimes she's for another.'
'She bid me come and see her,' said Kester. 'Only this mornin', atmissus' buryin', she telled me to come.'
So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was there; andreturned with the desire that he would walk into the parlour. Aninstant after he was gone, Phoebe heard him return, and carefullyshut the two doors of communication between the kitchen andsitting-room.
Sylvia was in the latter when Kester came in, holding her baby closeto her; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a-days to any one else,making Nancy's place quite a sinecure, much to Phoebe's indignation.
Sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin; her lovely eyes aloneretained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. She went up toKester, 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 downher sobs.
'Kester,' she went on, hastily, 'Charley Kinraid isn't dead; dost taknow? He's alive, and he were here o' Tuesday--no, Monday, was it? Icannot tell--but he were here!'
'A knowed as he weren't dead. Every one is a-speaking on it. But adidn't know as thee'd ha' seen him. A took comfort i' thinkin' asthou'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. Athought 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 aminute 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 mymind, and took a vow again' him--but it would be awful to think onharm happening to him through Kinraid. Yet he went out that morning,and has niver been seen or heard on sin'; and Kinraid were just fellagain' 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 itwhen Philip left this house?'
'Tuesday--the day she died. I saw him in her room that morningbetween breakfast and dinner; I could a'most swear to it's beingclose after eleven. I mind counting t' clock. It was that very mornas Kinraid 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 heonly stopped one night, and left i' t' morning betimes. But a'll gosee.'
'Do,' said Sylvia, 'and go out through t' shop; they're all watchingand watching me to see how I take things; and daren't let on aboutt' fire as is burning up my heart. Coulson is i' t' shop, but he'llnot notice thee like Phoebe.'
By-and-by Kester came back. It seemed as though Sylvia had neverstirred; she looked eagerly at him, but did not speak.
'He went away i' Rob Mason's mail-cart, him as tak's t' letters toHartlepool. 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 signto swing o'er their doors), t' lieutenant had reckoned upo' stayin'longer wi' 'em; but he went out betimes o' Tuesday morn', an' cameback a' ruffled up, an paid his bill--paid for his breakfast, thoughhe touched noane on it--an' went off i' Rob postman's mail-cart, asstarts reg'lar at ten o'clock. Corneys has been theere askin' forhim, an' makin' a piece o' work, as he niver went near em; and theybees cousins. Niver a one among 'em knows as he were here as far asa could mak' out.'
'Thank yo', Kester,' said Sylvia, falling back in her chair, as ifall the energy that had kept her stiff and upright was gone now thather anxiety was relieved.
She was silent for a long time; her eyes shut, her cheek laid on herchild's head. Kester spoke next.
'A think it's pretty clear as they'n niver met. But it's a' t' morewonder 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 whatI said to him, there, where she's gone to--I am-' the tears filledher shut eyes, and came softly overflowing down her cheeks; 'and yetit were true, what I said, I cannot forgive him; he's just spoilt mylife, 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 faithfullove, and Philip saw my heart ache day after day, and niver let onas him I was mourning for was alive, and had sent me word as he'dkeep true to me, as I were to do to him.'
'A wish a'd been theere; a'd ha' felled him to t' ground,' saidKester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation.
Sylvia was silent again: pale and weary she sate, her eyes stillshut.
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'swell 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 thequestion 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 notthink on him. A'll try an' tell thee some news, if a can think on itwi' 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 withfeeling.
'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, hascomed int' town to live; an' a'm lodging wi' her, an' jobbin' about.A'm gettin' pretty well to do, an' a'm noane far t' seek, an' a'mgoing now: only first a just wanted for t' say as a'm thy oldestfriend, 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 toone who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've only t' send forme, an' a'd come if it were twenty mile. A'm lodgin' at PeggyDawson'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 hersleeping 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. Sheought before this time to have been asleep in her bed, and thedisturbance made her cry fretfully.
'Hush thee, darling, hush thee!' murmured her mother; 'there's noone left to love me but thee, and I cannot stand thy weeping, mypretty one. Hush thee, my babe, hush thee!'
She whispered soft in the little one's ear as she took her upstairsto bed.
About three weeks after the miserable date of Bell Robson's deathand Philip's disappearance, Hester Rose received a letter from him.She knew the writing on the address well; and it made her tremble somuch that it was many minutes before she dared to open it, and makeherself acquainted with the facts it might disclose.
But she need not ha
ve feared; there were no facts told, unless thevague date of 'London' might be something to learn. Even that muchmight have been found out by the post-mark, only she had been toomuch taken by surprise to examine it.
It ran as follows:--
'DEAR HESTER,--
'Tell those whom it may concern, that I have left Monkshaven forever. No one need trouble themselves about me; I am provided for.Please to make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the MessrsFoster, and to my partner, William Coulson. Please to accept of mylove, and to join the same to your mother. Please to give myparticular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt IsabellaRobson. Her daughter Sylvia knows what I have always felt, and shallalways feel, for her better than I can ever put into language, so Isend her no message; God bless and keep my child. You must all lookon me as one dead; as I am to you, and maybe shall soon be inreality.
'Your affectionate and obedient friend to command,
'PHILIP HEPBURN.
'P.S.--Oh, Hester! for God's sake and mine, lookafter ('my wife,' scratched out) Sylvia and my child. I thinkJeremiah Foster will help you to be a friend to them. This is thelast solemn request of P. H. She is but very young.'
Hester read this letter again and again, till her heart caught theecho of its hopelessness, and sank within her. She put it in herpocket, and reflected upon it all the day long as she served in theshop.
The customers found her as gentle, but far more inattentive thanusual. She thought that in the evening she would go across thebridge, and consult with the two good old brothers Foster. Butsomething 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, andconfidence would have necessitated such a confession about Kinraidas it was most difficult for Sylvia to make. The poor young wife yetfelt that some step must be taken by her; and what it was to be shecould not imagine.
She had no home to go to; for as Philip was gone away, she remainedwhere she was only on sufferance; she did not know what means oflivelihood she had; she was willing to work, nay, would be thankfulto take up her old life of country labour; but with her baby, whatcould she do?
In this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's kindly speech andoffer of assistance, made, it is true, half in joke, at the end ofher wedding visit, came into her mind; and she resolved to go andask for some of the friendly counsel and assistance then offered.
It would be the first time of her going out since her mother'sfuneral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. More even thanon that account did she shrink from going into the streets again.She could not get over the impression that Kinraid must be lingeringnear; and she distrusted herself so much that it was a positiveterror to think of meeting him again. She felt as though, if she butcaught a sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard hiswell-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart wouldstop, 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 babyin her arms, as Nancy gave it to her after putting on itsout-of-door attire.
With it in her arms she was protected, and the whole current of herthoughts was changed. The infant was wailing and suffering with itsteething, and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing andconsoling her moaning child, that the dangerous quay-side and thebridge were passed almost before she was aware; nor did she noticethe eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met whorecognized her even through the heavy veil which formed part of thedraping mourning provided for her by Hester and Coulson, in thefirst unconscious days after her mother's death.
Though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon Philip'sdisappearance--warned possibly by Kinraid's story against hastydecisions and judgments in such times as those of war and generaldisturbance--yet every one agreed that no more pitiful fate couldhave befallen Philip's wife.
Marked out by her striking beauty as an object of admiring interesteven in those days when she sate in girlhood's smiling peace by hermother at the Market Cross--her father had lost his life in apopular 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 ofhis townsmen; Sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quietdaily life was well known to them; and now her husband had beencarried off from her side just on the very day when she needed hiscomfort most.
For the general opinion was that Philip had been 'carried off'--inseaport towns such occurrences were not uncommon in thosedays--either by land-crimps or water-crimps.
So Sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one sorelyafflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering walkto Jeremiah Foster's.
She had calculated her time so as to fall in with him at his dinnerhour, even though it obliged her to go to his own house rather thanto the bank where he and his brother spent all the business hours ofthe day.
Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk and theweight of her baby, that all she could do when the door was openedwas to totter into the nearest 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 morefirmly, 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 Imight have just a drink o' water. Thank you, ma'am' (to therespectable-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 thebank, 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, thouhast but to name it, I am sure. Martha! wilt thou relieve her of herchild while she comes with me into the parlour?'
But the wilful little Bella stoutly refused to go to any one, andSylvia was not willing to part with her, tired though she was.
So the baby was carried into the parlour, and much of her after-lifedepended 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, bypulling out his great gold watch, and letting the seal dangle beforethe child's eyes, almost within reach of the child's eager littlefingers.
'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 theice; for he rightly conjectured she had come to speak to him aboutsomething 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 solittle, on such slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as thelittle kindly speech with which she had been dismissed from thathouse the last time that she entered it.
'It's no use keeping yo', sir,' she broke out at last. 'It's aboutPhilip as I comed to speak. Do yo' know any thing whatsomever abouthim? He niver had a chance o' saying anything, I know; but maybehe's written?'
'Not a line, my poor young woman!' said Jeremiah, hastily putting anend to that vain idea.
'Then he's either dead or gone away for iver,' she whispered. 'I munbe both feyther and mother to my child.'
'Oh! thee must not give it up,' replied he. 'Many a one is carriedoff to the wars, or to the tenders o' men-o'-war; and then they turnout to be unfit for service, and are sent home. Philip 'll come backbefore the year's out; thee'll see that.'
'No; he'll niver come back. And I'm not sure as I should iver wishhim t' come back, if I could but know what was gone wi' him. Yo'see, sir, though I were sore set again' him, I shouldn't like harmto happen him.'
'There is something behind all this that I do not understand. Canthee tell me what it is?'
'I must, sir, if yo're to help me wi' your counsel; and I came uphere to ask for it.'
Another long pause, during
which Jeremiah made a feint of playingwith the child, who danced and shouted with tantalized impatience atnot being able to obtain possession of the seal, and at lengthstretched out her soft round little arms to go to the owner of thecoveted possession. Surprise at this action roused Sylvia, and shemade some comment upon it.
'I niver knew her t' go to any one afore. I hope she'll not betroublesome to yo', sir?'
The old man, who had often longed for a child of his own in daysgone by, was highly pleased by this mark of baby's confidence, andalmost forgot, in trying to strengthen her regard by all the winningwiles in his power, how her poor mother was still lingering oversome painful story which she could not bring herself to tell.
'I'm afeared of speaking wrong again' any one, sir. And mother wereso fond o' Philip; but he kept something from me as would ha' mademe a different woman, and some one else, happen, a different man. Iwere troth-plighted wi' Kinraid the specksioneer, him as was cousinto th' Corneys o' Moss Brow, and comed back lieutenant i' t' navylast Tuesday three weeks, after ivery one had thought him dead andgone these three years.'
She paused.
'Well?' said Jeremiah, with interest; although his attentionappeared to be divided between the mother's story and the eagerplayfulness of the baby on his knee.
'Philip knew he were alive; he'd seen him taken by t' press-gang,and Charley had sent a message to me by Philip.'
Her white face was reddening, her eyes flashing at this point of herstory.
'And he niver told me a word on it, not when he saw me like to breakmy heart in thinking as Kinraid were dead; he kept it a' to hissel';and watched me cry, and niver said a word to comfort me wi' t'truth. It would ha' been a great comfort, sir, only t' have had hismessage if I'd niver ha' been to see him again. But Philip niver leton to any one, as I iver heared on, that he'd seen Charley thatmorning as t' press-gang took him. Yo' know about feyther's death,and how friendless mother and me was left? and so I married him; forhe were a good friend to us then, and I were dazed like wi' sorrow,and could see naught else to do for mother. He were allays verytender and good to her, for sure.'
Again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one or two deepsighs.
'If I go on, sir, now, I mun ask yo' to promise as yo'll niver tell.I do so need some one to tell me what I ought to do, and I were ledhere, like, else I would ha' died wi' it all within my teeth. Yo'llpromise, sir?'
Jeremiah Foster looked in her face, and seeing the wistful, eagerlook, he was touched almost against his judgment into giving thepromise required; she went on.
'Upon a Tuesday morning, three weeks ago, I think, tho' for t'matter o' time it might ha' been three years, Kinraid come home;come back for t' claim me as his wife, and I were wed to Philip! Imet him i' t' road at first; and I couldn't tell him theere. Hefollowed me into t' house--Philip's house, sir, behind t' shop--andsomehow I told him all, how I were a wedded wife to another. Then heup and said I'd a false heart--me false, sir, as had eaten my dailybread in bitterness, and had wept t' nights through, all for sorrowand mourning for his death! Then he said as Philip knowed all t'time he were alive and coming back for me; and I couldn't believeit, and I called Philip, and he come, and a' that Charley had saidwere true; and yet I were Philip's wife! So I took a mighty oath,and I said as I'd niver hold Philip to be my lawful husband again,nor iver forgive him for t' evil he'd wrought us, but hold him as astranger and one as had done me a heavy wrong.'
She stopped speaking; her story seemed to her to end there. But herlistener said, after a pause,
'It were a cruel wrong, I grant thee that; but thy oath were a sin,and thy words were evil, my poor lass. What happened next?'
'I don't justly remember,' she said, wearily. 'Kinraid went away,and mother cried out; and I went to her. She were asleep, I thought,so I lay down by her, to wish I were dead, and to think on whatwould come on my child if I died; and Philip came in softly, and Imade as if I were asleep; and that's t' very last as I've iver seenor heared of him.'
Jeremiah Foster groaned as she ended her story. Then he pulledhimself up, and said, in a cheerful tone of voice,
'He'll come back, Sylvia Hepburn. He'll think better of it: neverfear!'
'I fear his coming back!' said she. 'That's what I'm feared on; Iwould wish as I knew on his well-doing i' some other place; but himand me can niver live together again.'
'Nay,' pleaded Jeremiah. 'Thee art sorry what thee said; thee weresore put about, or thee wouldn't have said it.'
He was trying to be a peace-maker, and to heal over conjugaldifferences; but he did not go deep enough.
'I'm not sorry,' said she, slowly. 'I were too deeply wronged to be"put about"; that would go off wi' a night's sleep. It's only thethought of mother (she's dead and happy, and knows nought of allthis, I trust) that comes between me and hating Philip. I'm notsorry for what I said.'
Jeremiah had never met with any one so frank and undisguised inexpressions of wrong feeling, and he scarcely knew what to say.
He looked extremely grieved, and not a little shocked. So pretty anddelicate a young creature to use such strong relentless language!
She seemed to read his thoughts, for she made answer to them.
'I dare say you think I'm very wicked, sir, not to be sorry. PerhapsI am. I can't think o' that for remembering how I've suffered; andhe knew how miserable I was, and might ha' cleared my misery awaywi' a word; and he held his peace, and now it's too late! I'm sicko' men and their cruel, deceitful ways. I wish I were dead.'
She was crying before she had ended this speech, and seeing hertears, the child began to cry too, stretching out its little arms togo back to its mother. The hard stony look on her face melted awayinto the softest, tenderest love as she clasped the little one toher, and tried to soothe its frightened sobs.
A bright thought came into the old man's mind.
He had been taking a complete dislike to her till her pretty waywith her baby showed him that she had a heart of flesh within her.
'Poor little one!' said he, 'thy mother had need love thee, forshe's deprived thee of thy father's love. Thou'rt half-way to beingan orphan; yet I cannot call thee one of the fatherless to whom Godwill be a father. Thou'rt a desolate babe, thou may'st well cry;thine earthly parents have forsaken thee, and I know not if the Lordwill take thee up.'
Sylvia looked up at him affrighted; holding her baby tighter to her,she exclaimed.
'Don't speak so, sir! it's cursing, sir! I haven't forsaken her! Oh,sir! those are awful sayings.'
'Thee hast sworn never to forgive thy husband, nor to live with himagain. Dost thee know that by the law of the land, he may claim hischild; and then thou wilt have to forsake it, or to be forsworn?Poor little maiden!' continued he, once more luring the baby to himwith the temptation of the watch and chain.
Sylvia thought for a while before speaking. Then she said,
'I cannot tell what ways to take. Whiles I think my head is crazed.It were a cruel turn he did me!'
'It was. I couldn't have thought him guilty of such baseness.'
This acquiescence, which was perfectly honest on Jeremiah's part,almost took Sylvia by surprise. Why might she not hate one who hadbeen both cruel and base in his treatment of her? And yet sherecoiled from the application of such hard terms by another toPhilip, by a cool-judging and indifferent person, as she esteemedJeremiah to be. From some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, shebegan to defend him, or at least to palliate the harsh judgmentwhich she herself had been the first to pronounce.
'He were so tender to mother; she were dearly fond on him; he niverspared aught he could do for her, else I would niver ha' marriedhim.'
'He was a good and kind-hearted lad from the time he was fifteen.And I never found him out in any falsehood, no more did my brother.'
'But it were all the same as a lie,' said Sylvia, swiftly changingher ground, 'to leave me to think as Charley were dead, when heknowed all t' time he were alive.'
'It was. It was a self-seeking lie; putting thee
to pain to get hisown ends. And the end of it has been that he is driven forth likeCain.'
'I niver told him to go, sir.'
'But thy words sent him forth, Sylvia.'
'I cannot unsay them, sir; and I believe as I should say themagain.'
But she said this as one who rather hopes for a contradiction.
All Jeremiah replied, however, was, 'Poor wee child!' in a pitifultone, addressed to the baby.
Sylvia's eyes filled with tears.
'Oh, sir, I'll do anything as iver yo' can tell me for her. That'swhat I came for t' ask yo'. I know I mun not stay theere, and Philipgone away; and I dunnot know what to do: and I'll do aught, only Imust keep her wi' me. Whativer can I do, sir?'
Jeremiah thought it over for a minute or two. Then he replied,
'I must have time to think. I must talk it over with brother John.'
'But you've given me yo'r word, sir!' exclaimed she.
'I have given thee my word never to tell any one of what has passedbetween thee and thy husband, but I must take counsel with mybrother as to what is to be done with thee and thy child, now thatthy husband has left the shop.'
This was said so gravely as almost to be a reproach, and he got up,as a sign that the interview was ended.
He gave the baby back to its mother; but not without a solemnblessing, so solemn that, to Sylvia's superstitious and excitedmind, it undid the terrors of what she had esteemed to be a curse.
'The Lord bless thee and keep thee! The Lord make His face to shineupon thee!'
All the way down the hill-side, Sylvia kept kissing the child, andwhispering to its unconscious ears,--
'I'll love thee for both, my treasure, I will. I'll hap thee roundwi' my love, so as thou shall niver need a feyther's.'