CHAPTER XLIII
THE UNKNOWN
A few days before that on which Philip arrived at Monkshaven, Kesterhad come to pay Sylvia a visit. As the earliest friend she had, andalso as one who knew the real secrets of her life, Sylvia alwaysgave him the warm welcome, the cordial words, and the sweet looks inwhich the old man delighted. He had a sort of delicacy of his ownwhich kept him from going to see her too often, even when he wasstationary at Monkshaven; but he looked forward to the times when heallowed himself this pleasure as a child at school looks forward toits holidays. The time of his service at Haytersbank had, on thewhole, been the happiest in all his long monotonous years of dailylabour. Sylvia's father had always treated him with the roughkindness of fellowship; Sylvia's mother had never stinted him in hismeat or grudged him his share of the best that was going; and once,when he was ill for a few days in the loft above the cow-house, shehad made him possets, and nursed him with the same tenderness whichhe remembered his mother showing to him when he was a little child,but which he had never experienced since then. He had known Sylviaherself, as bud, and sweet promise of blossom; and just as she wasopening into the full-blown rose, and, if she had been happy andprosperous, might have passed out of the narrow circle of Kester'sinterests, one sorrow after another came down upon her prettyinnocent head, and Kester's period of service to Daniel Robson, herfather, was tragically cut short. All this made Sylvia the greatcentre of the faithful herdsman's affection; and Bella, who remindedhim of what Sylvia was when first Kester knew her, only occupied thesecond place in his heart, although to the child he was much moredemonstrative of his regard than to the mother.
He had dressed himself in his Sunday best, and although it was onlyThursday, had forestalled his Saturday's shaving; he had providedhimself with a paper of humbugs for the child--'humbugs' being thenorth-country term for certain lumps of toffy, well-flavoured withpeppermint--and now he sat in the accustomed chair, as near to thedoor as might be, in Sylvia's presence, coaxing the little one, whowas not quite sure of his identity, to come to him, by opening thepaper parcel, and letting its sweet contents be seen.
'She's like thee--and yet she favours her feyther,' said he; and themoment he had uttered the incautious words he looked up to see howSylvia had taken the unpremeditated, unusual reference to herhusband. His stealthy glance did not meet her eye; but though hethought she had coloured a little, she did not seem offended as hehad feared. It was true that Bella had her father's grave,thoughtful, dark eyes, instead of her mother's gray ones, out ofwhich the childlike expression of wonder would never entirely passaway. And as Bella slowly and half distrustfully made her waytowards the temptation offered her, she looked at Kester with justher father's look.
Sylvia said nothing in direct reply; Kester almost thought she couldnot have heard him. But, by-and-by, she said,--
'Yo'll have heared how Kinraid--who's a captain now, and a grandofficer--has gone and got married.'
'Nay!' said Kester, in genuine surprise. 'He niver has, for sure!'
'Ay, but he has,' said Sylvia. 'And I'm sure I dunnot see why heshouldn't.'
'Well, well!' said Kester, not looking up at her, for he caught theinflections in the tones of her voice. 'He were a fine stirrin'chap, yon; an' he were allays for doin' summut; an' when he fund ashe couldn't ha' one thing as he'd set his mind on, a reckon hethought he mun put up wi' another.'
'It 'ud be no "putting up,"' said Sylvia. 'She were staying at BessyDawson's, and she come here to see me--she's as pretty a young ladyas yo'd see on a summer's day; and a real lady, too, wi' a fortune.She didn't speak two words wi'out bringing in her husband'sname,--"the captain", as she called him.'
'An' she come to see thee?' said Kester, cocking his eye at Sylviawith the old shrewd look. 'That were summut queer, weren't it?'
Sylvia reddened a good deal.
'He's too fause to have spoken to her on me, in t' old way,--as heused for t' speak to me. I were nought to her but Philip's wife.'
'An' what t' dickins had she to do wi' Philip?' asked Kester, inintense surprise; and so absorbed in curiosity that he let thehumbugs all fall out of the paper upon the floor, and the littleBella sat down, plump, in the midst of treasures as great as thosefabled to exist on Tom Tiddler's ground.
Sylvia was again silent; but Kester, knowing her well, was sure thatshe was struggling to speak, and bided his time without repeatinghis question.
'She said--and I think her tale were true, though I cannot get to t'rights on it, think on it as I will--as Philip saved her husband'slife somewheere nearabouts to Jerusalem. She would have it that t'captain--for I think I'll niver ca' him Kinraid again--was in agreat battle, and were near upon being shot by t' French, whenPhilip--our Philip--come up and went right into t' fire o' t' guns,and saved her husband's life. And she spoke as if both she and t'captain were more beholden to Philip than words could tell. And shecome to see me, to try and get news on him.
'It's a queer kind o' story,' said Kester, meditatively. 'A shouldha' thought as Philip were more likely to ha' gi'en him a shove intot' thick on it, than t' help him out o' t' scrape.'
'Nay!' said Sylvia, suddenly looking straight at Kester; 'yo're outtheere. Philip had a deal o' good in him. And I dunnot think as he'dha' gone and married another woman so soon, if he'd been i'Kinraid's place.'
'An' yo've niver heared on Philip sin' he left?' asked Kester, aftera while.
'Niver; nought but what she told me. And she said that t' captainmade inquiry for him right and left, as soon after that happened asmight be, and could hear niver a word about him. No one had seenhim, or knowed his name.'
'Yo' niver heared of his goin' for t' be a soldier?' perseveredKester.
'Niver. I've told yo' once. It were unlike Philip to think o' such athing.'
'But thou mun ha' been thinkin' on him at times i' a' these years.Bad as he'd behaved hissel', he were t' feyther o' thy little un.What did ta think he had been agait on when he left here?'
'I didn't know. I were noane so keen a-thinking on him at first. Itried to put him out o' my thoughts a'together, for it made me likemad to think how he'd stood between me and--that other. But I'dbegun to wonder and to wonder about him, and to think I should liketo hear as he were doing well. I reckon I thought he were i' London,wheere he'd been that time afore, yo' know, and had allays spoke asif he'd enjoyed hissel' tolerable; and then Molly Brunton told me ont' other one's marriage; and, somehow, it gave me a shake in myheart, and I began for to wish I hadn't said all them words i' mypassion; and then that fine young lady come wi' her story--and I'vethought a deal on it since,--and my mind has come out clear.Philip's dead, and it were his spirit as come to t' other's help inhis time o' need. I've heard feyther say as spirits cannot rest i'their graves for trying to undo t' wrongs they've done i' theirbodies.'
'Them's my conclusions,' said Kester, solemnly. 'A was fain for tohear what were yo'r judgments first; but them's the conclusions Icomed to as soon as I heard t' tale.'
'Let alone that one thing,' said Sylvia, 'he were a kind, good man.'
'It were a big deal on a "one thing", though,' said Kester. 'It justspoilt yo'r life, my poor lass; an' might ha' gone near to spoilin'Charley Kinraid's too.'
'Men takes a deal more nor women to spoil their lives,' said Sylvia,bitterly.
'Not a' mak' o' men. I reckon, lass, Philip's life were pretty wellon for bein' spoilt at after he left here; and it were, mebbe, agood thing he got rid on it so soon.'
'I wish I'd just had a few kind words wi' him, I do,' said Sylvia,almost on the point of crying.
'Come, lass, it's as ill moanin' after what's past as it 'ud be forme t' fill my eyes wi' weepin' after t' humbugs as this little wencho' thine has grubbed up whilst we'n been talkin'. Why, there's notone on 'em left!'
'She's a sad spoilt little puss!' said Sylvia, holding out her armsto the child, who ran into them, and began patting her mother'scheeks, and pulling at the soft brown curls tucked away beneath thematronly cap. 'Mammy spoils her,
and Hester spoils her----'
'Granny Rose doesn't spoil me,' said the child, with quick,intelligent discrimination, interrupting her mother's list.
'No; but Jeremiah Foster does above a bit. He'll come in fro' t'Bank, Kester, and ask for her, a'most ivery day. And he'll bring herthings in his pocket; and she's so fause, she allays goes straightto peep in, and then he shifts t' apple or t' toy into another. Eh!but she's a little fause one,'--half devouring the child with herkisses. 'And he comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goesas slow as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace wi' Bella'ssteps. I often run upstairs and watch 'em out o' t' window; hedoesn't care to have me with 'em, he's so fain t' have t' child allto hisself.'
'She's a bonny un, for sure,' said Kester; 'but not so pretty asthou was, Sylvie. A've niver tell'd thee what a come for tho', andit's about time for me t' be goin'. A'm off to t' Cheviots to-morrowmorn t' fetch home some sheep as Jonas Blundell has purchased. It'llbe a job o' better nor two months a reckon.'
'It'll be a nice time o' year,' said Sylvia, a little surprised atKester's evident discouragement at the prospect of the journey orabsence; he had often been away from Monkshaven for a longer timewithout seeming to care so much about it.
'Well, yo' see it's a bit hard upon me for t' leave my sister--sheas is t' widow-woman, wheere a put up when a'm at home. Things ismain an' dear; four-pound loaves is at sixteenpence; an' there's adeal o' talk on a famine i' t' land; an' whaten a paid for myvictual an' t' bed i' t' lean-to helped t' oud woman a bit,--an'she's sadly down i' t' mouth, for she cannot hear on a lodger for t'tak' my place, for a' she's moved o'er to t' other side o' t' bridgefor t' be nearer t' new buildings, an' t' grand new walk they'remakin' round t' cliffs, thinkin' she'd be likelier t' pick up alabourer as would be glad on a bed near his work. A'd ha' liked toha' set her agait wi' a 'sponsible lodger afore a'd ha' left, forshe's just so soft-hearted, any scamp may put upon her if he nobbutgets houd on her blind side.'
'Can I help her?' said Sylvia, in her eager way. 'I should be soglad; and I've a deal of money by me---'
'Nay, my lass,' said Kester, 'thou munnot go off so fast; it werejust what I were feared on i' tellin' thee. I've left her a bit o'money, and I'll mak' shift to send her more; it's just a kind word,t' keep up her heart when I'm gone, as I want. If thou'd step in andsee her fra' time to time, and cheer her up a bit wi' talkin' to heron me, I'd tak' it very kind, and I'd go off wi' a lighter heart.'
'Then I'm sure I'll do it for yo', Kester. I niver justly feel likemysel' when yo're away, for I'm lonesome enough at times. She and Iwill talk a' t' better about yo' for both on us grieving after yo'.'
So Kester took his leave, his mind set at ease by Sylvia's promiseto go and see his sister pretty often during his absence in theNorth.
But Sylvia's habits were changed since she, as a girl atHaytersbank, liked to spend half her time in the open air, runningout perpetually without anything on to scatter crumbs to thepoultry, or to take a piece of bread to the old cart-horse, to go upto the garden for a handful of herbs, or to clamber to the highestpoint around to blow the horn which summoned her father and Kesterhome to dinner. Living in a town where it was necessary to put onhat and cloak before going out into the street, and then to walk ina steady and decorous fashion, she had only cared to escape down tothe freedom of the sea-shore until Philip went away; and after thattime she had learnt so to fear observation as a deserted wife, thatnothing but Bella's health would have been a sufficient motive totake her out of doors. And, as she had told Kester, the necessity ofgiving the little girl a daily walk was very much lightened by thegreat love and affection which Jeremiah Foster now bore to thechild. Ever since the day when the baby had come to his knee,allured by the temptation of his watch, he had apparently consideredher as in some sort belonging to him; and now he had almost come tothink that he had a right to claim her as his companion in his walkback from the Bank to his early dinner, where a high chair wasalways placed ready for the chance of her coming to share his meal.On these occasions he generally brought her back to the shop-doorwhen he returned to his afternoon's work at the Bank. Sometimes,however, he would leave word that she was to be sent for from hishouse in the New Town, as his business at the Bank for that day wasended. Then Sylvia was compelled to put on her things, and fetchback her darling; and excepting for this errand she seldom went outat all on week-days.
About a fortnight after Kester's farewell call, this need for hervisit to Jeremiah Foster's arose; and it seemed to Sylvia that therecould not be a better opportunity of fulfilling her promise andgoing to see the widow Dobson, whose cottage was on the other sideof the river, low down on the cliff-side, just at the bend and rushof the full stream into the open sea. She set off pretty early inorder to go there first. She found the widow with her house-placetidied up after the midday meal, and busy knitting at the opendoor--not looking at her rapid-clicking needles, but gazing at therush and recession of the waves before her; yet not seeing themeither,--rather seeing days long past.
She started into active civility as soon as she recognized Sylvia,who was to her as a great lady, never having known Sylvia Robson inher wild childish days. Widow Dobson was always a little scandalizedat her brother Christopher's familiarity with Mrs. Hepburn.
She dusted a chair which needed no dusting, and placed it forSylvia, sitting down herself on a three-legged stool to mark hersense of the difference in their conditions, for there was anotherchair or two in the humble dwelling; and then the two fell intotalk--first about Kester, whom his sister would persist in callingChristopher, as if his dignity as her elder brother was compromisedby any familiar abbreviation; and by-and-by she opened her heart alittle more.
'A could wish as a'd learned write-of-hand,' said she; 'for a'vethat for to tell Christopher as might set his mind at ease. But yo'see, if a wrote him a letter he couldn't read it; so a just comfortmysel' wi' thinkin' nobody need learn writin' unless they'n gotfriends as can read. But a reckon he'd ha' been glad to hear as a'vegetten a lodger.' Here she nodded her head in the direction of thedoor opening out of the house-place into the 'lean-to', which Sylviahad observed on drawing near the cottage, and the recollection ofthe mention of which by Kester had enabled her to identify widowDobson's dwelling. 'He's a-bed yonder,' the latter continued,dropping her voice. 'He's a queer-lookin' tyke, but a don't think ashe's a bad un.'
'When did he come?' said Sylvia, remembering Kester's account of hissister's character, and feeling as though it behoved her, asKester's confidante on this head, to give cautious and prudentadvice.
'Eh! a matter of a s'ennight ago. A'm noane good at mindin' time;he's paid me his rent twice, but then he were keen to pay aforehand.He'd comed in one night, an' sate him down afore he could speak, hewere so done up; he'd been on tramp this many a day, a reckon. "Canyo' give me a bed?" says he, panting like, after a bit. "A chap as amet near here says as yo've a lodging for t' let." "Ay," says a, "aha' that; but yo' mun pay me a shilling a week for 't." Then my mindmisgive me, for a thought he hadn't a shilling i' t' world, an' yetif he hadn't, a should just ha' gi'en him t' bed a' t' same: a'm notone as can turn a dog out if he comes t' me wearied o' his life. Sohe outs wi' a shillin', an' lays it down on t' table, 'bout a word."A'll not trouble yo' long," says he. "A'm one as is best out o' t'world," he says. Then a thought as a'd been a bit hard upon him. An'says I, "A'm a widow-woman, and one as has getten but few friends:"for yo' see a were low about our Christopher's goin' away north; "soa'm forced-like to speak hard to folk; but a've made mysel' somestirabout for my supper; and if yo'd like t' share an' share aboutwi' me, it's but puttin' a sup more watter to 't, and God's blessing'll be on 't, just as same as if 't were meal." So he ups wi' hishand afore his e'en, and says not a word. At last he says, "Missus,"says he, "can God's blessing be shared by a sinner--one o' t'devil's children?" says he. "For the Scriptur' says he's t' fathero' lies." So a were puzzled-like; an' at length a says, "Thou munask t' parson that; a'm but a poor faint-hearted widow-woman; buta've allays
had God's blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an' a'llshare it wi' thee as far as my will goes." So he raxes his handacross t' table, an' mutters summat, as he grips mine. A thought itwere Scriptur' as he said, but a'd needed a' my strength just thenfor t' lift t' pot off t' fire--it were t' first vittle a'd tastedsin' morn, for t' famine comes down like stones on t' head o' uspoor folk: an' a' a said were just "Coom along, chap, an' fa' to;an' God's blessing be on him as eats most." An' sin' that day himand me's been as thick as thieves, only he's niver telled me noughtof who he is, or wheere he comes fra'. But a think he's one o' thempoor colliers, as has getten brunt i' t' coal-pits; for, t' be sure,his face is a' black wi' fire-marks; an' o' late days he's ta'en t'his bed, an' just lies there sighing,--for one can hear him plain asdayleet thro' t' bit partition wa'.'
As a proof of this, a sigh--almost a groan--startled the two womenat this very moment.
'Poor fellow!' said Sylvia, in a soft whisper. 'There's more sorehearts i' t' world than one reckons for!' But after a while, shebethought her again of Kester's account of his sister's 'softness';and she thought that it behoved her to give some good advice. So sheadded, in a sterner, harder tone--'Still, yo' say yo' know noughtabout him; and tramps is tramps a' t' world over; and yo're a widow,and it behoves yo' to be careful. I think I'd just send him off assoon as he's a bit rested. Yo' say he's plenty o' money?'
'Nay! A never said that. A know nought about it. He pays meaforehand; an' he pays me down for whativer a've getten for him; butthat's but little; he's noane up t' his vittle, though a've made himsome broth as good as a could make 'em.'
'I wouldn't send him away till he was well again, if I were yo; butI think yo'd be better rid on him,' said Sylvia. 'It would bedifferent if yo'r brother were in Monkshaven.' As she spoke she roseto go.
Widow Dobson held her hand in hers for a minute, then the humblewoman said,--
'Yo'll noane be vexed wi' me, missus, if a cannot find i' my heartt' turn him out till he wants to go hissel'? For a wouldn't like tovex yo', for Christopher's sake; but a know what it is for t' feelfor friendless folk, an' choose what may come on it, I cannot sendhim away.'
'No!' said Sylvia. 'Why should I be vexed? it's no business o' mine.Only I should send him away if I was yo'. He might go lodge wheerethere was men-folk, who know t' ways o' tramps, and are up to them.'
Into the sunshine went Sylvia. In the cold shadow the miserabletramp lay sighing. She did not know that she had been so near to himtowards whom her heart was softening, day by day.