Sylvia's Lovers — Complete

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  CHAPTER XI

  VISIONS OF THE FUTURE

  Before May was out, Molly Corney was married and had left theneighbourhood for Newcastle. Although Charley Kinraid was not thebridegroom, Sylvia's promise to be bridesmaid was claimed. But thefriendship brought on by the circumstances of neighbourhood andparity of age had become very much weakened in the time that elapsedbetween Molly's engagement and wedding. In the first place, sheherself was so absorbed in her preparations, so elated by her goodfortune in getting married, and married, too, before her eldersister, that all her faults blossomed out full and strong. Sylviafelt her to be selfish; Mrs. Robson thought her not maidenly. A yearbefore she would have been far more missed and regretted by Sylvia;now it was almost a relief to the latter to be freed from theperpetual calls upon her sympathy, from the constant demands uponher congratulations, made by one who had no thought or feeling tobestow on others; at least, not in these weeks of 'cock-a-doodle-dooing,'as Mrs. Robson persisted in calling it. It was seldom that Bellwas taken with a humorous idea; but this once having hatched asolitary joke, she was always clucking it into notice--to go onwith her own poultry simile.

  Every time during that summer that Philip saw his cousin, he thoughther prettier than she had ever been before; some new touch ofcolour, some fresh sweet charm, seemed to have been added, just asevery summer day calls out new beauty in the flowers. And this wasnot the addition of Philip's fancy. Hester Rose, who met Sylvia onrare occasions, came back each time with a candid, sadacknowledgement in her heart that it was no wonder that Sylvia wasso much admired and loved.

  One day Hester had seen her sitting near her mother in themarket-place; there was a basket by her, and over the clean cloththat covered the yellow pounds of butter, she had laid thehedge-roses and honeysuckles she had gathered on the way intoMonkshaven; her straw hat was on her knee, and she was busy placingsome of the flowers in the ribbon that went round it. Then she heldit on her hand, and turned it round about, putting her head on oneside, the better to view the effect; and all this time, Hester,peeping at her through the folds of the stuffs displayed in Foster'swindows, saw her with admiring, wistful eyes; wondering, too, ifPhilip, at the other counter, were aware of his cousin's beingthere, so near to him. Then Sylvia put on her hat, and, looking upat Foster's windows, caught Hester's face of interest, and smiledand blushed at the consciousness of having been watched over herlittle vanities, and Hester smiled back, but rather sadly. Then acustomer came in, and she had to attend to her business, which, onthis as on all market days, was great. In the midst she was aware ofPhilip rushing bare-headed out of the shop, eager and delighted atsomething he saw outside. There was a little looking-glass hungagainst the wall on Hester's side, placed in that retired corner, inorder that the good women who came to purchase head-gear of any kindmight see the effect thereof before they concluded their bargain. Ina pause of custom, Hester, half-ashamed, stole into this corner, andlooked at herself in the glass. What did she see? a colourless face,dark soft hair with no light gleams in it, eyes that were melancholyinstead of smiling, a mouth compressed with a sense ofdissatisfaction. This was what she had to compare with the brightbonny face in the sunlight outside. She gave a gulp to check thesigh that was rising, and came back, even more patient than she hadbeen before this disheartening peep, to serve all the whims andfancies of purchasers.

  Sylvia herself had been rather put out by Philip's way of coming toher. 'It made her look so silly,' she thought; and 'what for must hemake a sight of himself, coming among the market folk inthat-a-way'; and when he took to admiring her hat, she pulled outthe flowers in a pet, and threw them down, and trampled them underfoot.

  'What for art thou doing that, Sylvie?' said her mother. 'Theflowers is well enough, though may-be thy hat might ha' beenstained.'

  'I don't like Philip to speak to me so,' said Sylvia, pouting.

  'How?' asked her mother.

  But Sylvia could not repeat his words. She hung her head, and lookedred and pre-occupied, anything but pleased. Philip had addressed hisfirst expression of personal admiration at an unfortunate tune.

  It just shows what different views different men and women take oftheir fellow-creatures, when I say that Hester looked upon Philip asthe best and most agreeable man she had ever known. He was not oneto speak of himself without being questioned on the subject, so hisHaytersbank relations, only come into the neighborhood in the lastyear or two, knew nothing of the trials he had surmounted, or thedifficult duties he had performed. His aunt, indeed, had strongfaith in him, both from partial knowledge of his character, andbecause he was of her own tribe and kin; but she had never learntthe small details of his past life. Sylvia respected him as hermother's friend, and treated him tolerably well as long as hepreserved his usual self-restraint of demeanour, but hardly everthought of him when he was absent.

  Now Hester, who had watched him daily for all the years since he hadfirst come as an errand-boy into Foster's shop--watching with quiet,modest, yet observant eyes--had seen how devoted he was to hismaster's interests, had known of his careful and punctualministration to his absent mother's comforts, as long as she wasliving to benefit by his silent, frugal self-denial.

  His methodical appropriation of the few hours he could call his ownwas not without its charms to the equally methodical Hester; the wayin which he reproduced any lately acquired piece ofknowledge--knowledge so wearisome to Sylvia--was delightfullyinstructive to Hester--although, as she was habitually silent, itwould have required an observer more interested in discovering herfeelings than Philip was to have perceived the little flush on thepale cheek, and the brightness in the half-veiled eyes whenever hewas talking. She had not thought of love on either side. Love was avanity, a worldliness not to be spoken about, or even thought about.Once or twice before the Robsons came into the neighbourhood, anidea had crossed her mind that possibly the quiet, habitual way inwhich she and Philip lived together, might drift them into matrimonyat some distant period; and she could not bear the humble advanceswhich Coulson, Philip's fellow-lodger, sometimes made. They seemedto disgust her with him.

  But after the Robsons settled at Haytersbank, Philip's evenings wereso often spent there that any unconscious hopes Hester might,unawares, have entertained, died away. At first she had felt a pangakin to jealousy when she heard of Sylvia, the little cousin, whowas passing out of childhood into womanhood. Once--early in thosedays--she had ventured to ask Philip what Sylvia was like. Philiphad not warmed up at the question, and had given rather a drycatalogue of her features, hair, and height, but Hester, almost toher own surprise, persevered, and jerked out the final question.

  'Is she pretty?'

  Philip's sallow cheek grew deeper by two or three shades; but heanswered with a tone of indifference,--

  'I believe some folks think her so.'

  'But do you?' persevered Hester, in spite of her being aware that hesomehow disliked the question.

  'There's no need for talking o' such things,' he answered, withabrupt displeasure.

  Hester silenced her curiosity from that time. But her heart was notquite at ease, and she kept on wondering whether Philip thought hislittle cousin pretty until she saw her and him together, on thatoccasion of which we have spoken, when Sylvia came to the shop tobuy her new cloak; and after that Hester never wondered whetherPhilip thought his cousin pretty or no, for she knew quite well.Bell Robson had her own anxieties on the subject of her daughter'sincreasing attractions. She apprehended the dangers consequent uponcertain facts, by a mental process more akin to intuition thanreason. She was uncomfortable, even while her motherly vanity wasflattered, at the admiration Sylvia received from the other sex.This admiration was made evident to her mother in many ways. WhenSylvia was with her at market, it might have been thought that thedoctors had prescribed a diet of butter and eggs to all the menunder forty in Monkshaven. At first it seemed to Mrs. Robson but anatural tribute to the superior merit of her farm produce; but bydegrees she perceived that if Sylvia remained at home, she
stood nobetter chance than her neighbours of an early sale. There were morecustomers than formerly for the fleeces stored in the wool-loft;comely young butchers came after the calf almost before it had beendecided to sell it; in short, excuses were seldom wanting to thosewho wished to see the beauty of Haytersbank Farm. All this made Belluncomfortable, though she could hardly have told what she dreaded.Sylvia herself seemed unspoilt by it as far as her home relationswere concerned. A little thoughtless she had always been, andthoughtless she was still; but, as her mother had often said, 'Yo'canna put old heads on young shoulders;' and if blamed for hercarelessness by her parents, Sylvia was always as penitent as shecould be for the time being. To be sure, it was only to her fatherand mother that she remained the same as she had been when anawkward lassie of thirteen. Out of the house there were the mostcontradictory opinions of her, especially if the voices of womenwere to be listened to. She was 'an ill-favoured, overgrown thing';'just as bonny as the first rose i' June, and as sweet i' her natureas t' honeysuckle a-climbing round it;' she was 'a vixen, with atongue sharp enough to make yer very heart bleed;' she was 'just abit o' sunshine wheriver she went;' she was sulky, lively, witty,silent, affectionate, or cold-hearted, according to the person whospoke about her. In fact, her peculiarity seemed to be this--thatevery one who knew her talked about her either in praise or blame;in church, or in market, she unconsciously attracted attention; theycould not forget her presence, as they could that of other girlsperhaps more personally attractive. Now all this was a cause ofanxiety to her mother, who began to feel as if she would rather havehad her child passed by in silence than so much noticed. Bell'sopinion was, that it was creditable to a woman to go through life inthe shadow of obscurity,--never named except in connexion with goodhousewifery, husband, or children. Too much talking about a girl,even in the way of praise, disturbed Mrs. Robson's opinion of her;and when her neighbours told her how her own daughter was admired,she would reply coldly, 'She's just well enough,' and change thesubject of conversation. But it was quite different with herhusband. To his looser, less-restrained mind, it was agreeable tohear of, and still more to see, the attention which his daughter'sbeauty received. He felt it as reflecting consequence on himself. Hehad never troubled his mind with speculations as to whether hehimself was popular, still less whether he was respected. He waspretty welcome wherever he went, as a jovial good-natured man, whohad done adventurous and illegal things in his youth, which in somemeasure entitled him to speak out his opinions on life in general inthe authoritative manner he generally used; but, of the two, hepreferred consorting with younger men, to taking a sober stand ofrespectability with the elders of the place; and he perceived,without reasoning upon it, that the gay daring spirits were moredesirous of his company when Sylvia was by his side than at anyother time. One or two of these would saunter up to Haytersbank on aSunday afternoon, and lounge round his fields with the old farmer.Bell kept herself from the nap which had been her weekly solace foryears, in order to look after Sylvia, and on such occasions shealways turned as cold a shoulder to the visitors as her sense ofhospitality and of duty to her husband would permit. But if they didnot enter the house, old Robson would always have Sylvia with himwhen he went the round of his land. Bell could see them from theupper window: the young men standing in the attitudes of listeners,while Daniel laid down the law on some point, enforcing his words bypantomimic actions with his thick stick; and Sylvia, half turningaway as if from some too admiring gaze, was possibly picking flowersout of the hedge-bank. These Sunday afternoon strolls were theplague of Bell's life that whole summer. Then it took as much ofartifice as was in the simple woman's nature to keep Daniel frominsisting on having Sylvia's company every time he went down toMonkshaven. And here, again, came a perplexity, the acknowledgementof which in distinct thought would have been an act of disloyalty,according to Bell's conscience. If Sylvia went with her father, henever drank to excess; and that was a good gain to health at anyrate (drinking was hardly a sin against morals in those days, and inthat place); so, occasionally, she was allowed to accompany him toMonkshaven as a check upon his folly; for he was too fond and proudof his daughter to disgrace her by any open excess. But one Sundayafternoon early in November, Philip came up before the time at whichhe usually paid his visits. He looked grave and pale; and his auntbegan,--

  'Why, lad! what's been ado? Thou'rt looking as peaked and pined as aMethody preacher after a love-feast, when he's talked hisself toDeath's door. Thee dost na' get good milk enow, that's what itis,--such stuff as Monkshaven folks put up wi'!'

  'No, aunt; I'm quite well. Only I'm a bit put out--vexed like atwhat I've heerd about Sylvie.'

  His aunt's face changed immediately.

  'And whatten folk say of her, next thing?'

  'Oh,' said Philip, struck by the difference of look and manner inhis aunt, and subdued by seeing how instantly she took alarm. 'Itwere only my uncle;--he should na' take a girl like her to a public.She were wi' him at t' "Admiral's Head" upo' All Souls' Day--thatwere all. There were many a one there beside,--it were statute fair;but such a one as our Sylvie ought not to be cheapened wi' t' rest.'

  'And he took her there, did he?' said Bell, in severe meditation. 'Ihad never no opinion o' th' wenches as 'll set theirselves to behired for servants i' th' fair; they're a bad lot, as cannot findplaces for theirselves--'bout going and stannin' to be stared at byfolk, and grinnin' wi' th' plough-lads when no one's looking; it's abad look-out for t' missus as takes one o' these wenches for aservant; and dost ta mean to say as my Sylvie went and demeanedhersel' to dance and marlock wi' a' th' fair-folk at th' "Admiral'sHead?"'

  'No, no, she did na' dance; she barely set foot i' th' room; but itwere her own pride as saved her; uncle would niver ha' kept her fromit, for he had fallen in wi' Hayley o' Seaburn and one or twoothers, and they were having a glass i' t' bar, and Mrs. Lawson, t'landlady, knew how there was them who would come and dance amongparish 'prentices if need were, just to get a word or a look wi'Sylvie! So she tempts her in, saying that the room were allsmartened and fine wi' flags; and there was them in the room as toldme that they never were so startled as when they saw our Sylvie'sface peeping in among all t' flustered maids and men, rough and redwi' weather and drink; and Jem Macbean, he said she were just like abit o' apple-blossom among peonies; and some man, he didn't knowwho, went up and spoke to her; an' either at that, or at some o' t'words she heard--for they'd got a good way on afore that time--shewent quite white and mad, as if fire were coming out of her eyes,and then she turned red and left the room, for all t' landlady triedto laugh it off and keep her in.'

  'I'll be down to Monkshaven before I'm a day older, and tellMargaret Lawson some on my mind as she'll not forget in a hurry.'

  Bell moved as though she would put on her cloak and hood there andthen.

  'Nay, it's not in reason as a woman i' that line o' life shouldn'ttry to make her house agreeable,' said Philip.

  'Not wi' my wench,' said Bell, in a determined voice.

  Philip's information had made a deeper impression on his aunt thanhe intended. He himself had been annoyed more at the idea thatSylvia would be spoken of as having been at a rough piece of rusticgaiety--a yearly festival for the lower classes of Yorkshireservants, out-door as well as in-door--than at the affair itself,for he had learnt from his informant how instantaneous herappearance had been. He stood watching his aunt's troubled face, andalmost wishing that he had not spoken. At last she heaved a deepsigh, and stirring the fire, as if by this little householdoccupation to compose her mind, she said--

  'It's a pity as wenches aren't lads, or married folk. I could ha'wished--but it were the Lord's will--It would ha' been summut tolook to, if she'd had a brother. My master is so full on his ownthoughts, yo' see, he's no mind left for thinking on her, what wi'th' oats, and th' wool, and th' young colt, and his venture i' th'_Lucky Mary_.'

  She really believed her husband to have the serious and importantoccupation for his mind that she had been taught to considerbefittin
g the superior intellect of the masculine gender; she wouldhave taxed herself severely, if, even in thought, she had blamedhim, and Philip respected her feelings too much to say that Sylvia'sfather ought to look after her more closely if he made such a prettycreature so constantly his companion; yet some such speech was onlyjust pent within Philip's closed lips. Again his aunt spoke--

  'I used to think as she and yo' might fancy one another, but thou'rttoo old-fashioned like for her; ye would na' suit; and it's as well,for now I can say to thee, that I would take it very kindly if thouwould'st look after her a bit.'

  Philip's countenance fell into gloom. He had to gulp down certainfeelings before he could make answer with discretion.

  'How can I look after her, and me tied to the shop more and moreevery day?'

  'I could send her on a bit of an errand to Foster's, and then, forsure, yo' might keep an eye upon her when she's in th' town; andjust walk a bit way with her when she's in th' street, and keep t'other fellows off her--Ned Simpson, t' butcher, in 'special, forfolks do say he means no good by any girl he goes wi'--and I'll askfather to leave her a bit more wi' me. They're coming down th' brow,and Ned Simpson wi' them. Now, Philip, I look to thee to do abrother's part by my wench, and warn off all as isn't fit.'

  The door opened, and the coarse strong voice of Simpson made itselfheard. He was a stout man, comely enough as to form and feature, butwith a depth of colour in his face that betokened the coming on ofthe habits of the sot. His Sunday hat was in his hand, and hesmoothed the long nap of it, as he said, with a mixture of shynessand familiarity--

  'Sarvant, missus. Yo'r measter is fain that I should come in an'have a drop; no offence, I hope?'

  Sylvia passed quickly through the house-place, and went upstairswithout speaking to her cousin Philip or to any one. He sat on,disliking the visitor, and almost disliking his hospitable uncle forhaving brought Simpson into the house, sympathizing with his aunt inthe spirit which prompted her curt answers, and in the intervals ofall these feelings wondering what ground she had for speaking as ifshe had now given up all thought of Sylvia and him ever beingmarried, and in what way he was too 'old-fashioned.'

  Robson would gladly have persuaded Philip to join him and Simpson intheir drink, but Philip was in no sociable mood, and sate a littlealoof, watching the staircase down which sooner or later Sylvia mustcome; for, as perhaps has been already said, the stairs went upstraight out of the kitchen. And at length his yearning watch wasrewarded; first, the little pointed toe came daintily in sight, thenthe trim ankle in the tight blue stocking, the wool of which wasspun and the web of which was knitted by her mother's careful hands;then the full brown stuff petticoat, the arm holding the petticoatback in decent folds, so as not to encumber the descending feet; theslender neck and shoulders hidden under the folded square of freshwhite muslin; the crowning beauty of the soft innocent face radiantin colour, and with the light brown curls clustering around. Shemade her way quickly to Philip's side; how his heart beat at herapproach! and even more when she entered into a low-voiced_tete-a-tete_.

  'Isn't he gone yet?' said she. 'I cannot abide him; I could ha'pinched father when he asked him for t' come in.'

  'Maybe, he'll not stay long,' said Philip, hardly understanding themeaning of what he said, so sweet was it to have her making herwhispered confidences to him.

  But Simpson was not going to let her alone in the dark cornerbetween the door and the window. He began paying her some coarsecountry compliments--too strong in their direct flattery for evenher father's taste, more especially as he saw by his wife's set lipsand frowning brow how much she disapproved of their visitor's styleof conversation.

  'Come, measter, leave t' lass alone; she's set up enough a'ready,her mother makes such a deal on her. Yo' an' me's men for sensibletalk at our time o' life. An', as I was saying, t' horse was aweaver if iver one was, as any one could ha' told as had come withina mile on him.'

  And in this way the old farmer and the bluff butcher chatted onabout horses, while Philip and Sylvia sate together, he turning overall manner of hopes and projects for the future, in spite of hisaunt's opinion that he was too 'old-fashioned' for her dainty,blooming daughter. Perhaps, too, Mrs. Robson saw some reason forchanging her mind on this head as she watched Sylvia this night, forshe accompanied Philip to the door, when the time came for him tostart homewards, and bade him 'good-night' with unusual fervour,adding--

  'Thou'st been a deal o' comfort to me, lad--a'most as one as if thouwert a child o' my own, as at times I could welly think thou art tobe. Anyways, I trust to thee to look after the lile lass, as has nobrother to guide her among men--and men's very kittle for a woman todeal wi; but if thou'lt have an eye on whom she consorts wi', mymind 'll be easier.'

  Philip's heart beat fast, but his voice was as calm as usual when hereplied--

  'I'd just keep her a bit aloof from Monkshaven folks; a lass isalways the more thought on for being chary of herself; and as for t'rest, I'll have an eye to the folks she goes among, and if I seethat they don't befit her, I'll just give her a warning, for she'snot one to like such chaps as yon Simpson there; she can see what'sbecoming in a man to say to a lass, and what's not.'

  Philip set out on his two-mile walk home with a tumult of happinessin his heart. He was not often carried away by delusions of his owncreating; to-night he thought he had good ground for believing thatby patient self-restraint he might win Sylvia's love. A year ago hehad nearly earned her dislike by obtruding upon her looks and wordsbetokening his passionate love. He alarmed her girlish coyness, aswell as wearied her with the wish he had then felt that she shouldtake an interest in his pursuits. But, with unusual wisdom, he hadperceived his mistake; it was many months now since he had betrayed,by word or look, that she was anything more to him than a littlecousin to be cared for and protected when need was. The consequencewas that she had become tamed, just as a wild animal is tamed; hehad remained tranquil and impassive, almost as if he did notperceive her shy advances towards friendliness. These advances weremade by her after the lessons had ceased. She was afraid lest he wasdispleased with her behaviour in rejecting his instructions, and wasnot easy till she was at peace with him; and now, to all appearance,he and she were perfect friends, but nothing more. In his absenceshe would not allow her young companions to laugh at his gravesobriety of character, and somewhat prim demeanour; she would evengo against her conscience, and deny that she perceived anypeculiarity. When she wanted it, she sought his advice on such smallsubjects as came up in her daily life; and she tried not to showsigns of weariness when he used more words--and more difficultwords--than were necessary to convey his ideas. But her idealhusband was different from Philip in every point, the two imagesnever for an instant merged into one. To Philip she was the onlywoman in the world; it was the one subject on which he dared notconsider, for fear that both conscience and judgment should decideagainst him, and that he should be convinced against his will thatshe was an unfit mate for him, that she never would be his, and thatit was waste of time and life to keep her shrined in the dearestsanctuary of his being, to the exclusion of all the serious andreligious aims which, in any other case, he would have been thefirst to acknowledge as the object he ought to pursue. For he hadbeen brought up among the Quakers, and shared in their austeredistrust of a self-seeking spirit; yet what else but self-seekingwas his passionate prayer, 'Give me Sylvia, or else, I die?' Noother vision had ever crossed his masculine fancy for a moment; hiswas a rare and constant love that deserved a better fate than it metwith. At this time his hopes were high, as I have said, not merelyas to the growth of Sylvia's feelings towards him, but as to theprobability of his soon being in a position to place her in suchcomfort, as his wife, as she had never enjoyed before.

  For the brothers Foster were thinking of retiring from business, andrelinquishing the shop to their two shopmen, Philip Hepburn andWilliam Coulson. To be sure, it was only by looking back for a fewmonths, and noticing chance expressions and small indications, thatthis intention of t
heirs could be discovered. But every step theytook tended this way, and Philip knew their usual practice ofdeliberation too well to feel in the least impatient for the quickerprogress of the end which he saw steadily approaching. The wholeatmosphere of life among the Friends at this date partook of thischaracter of self-repression, and both Coulson and Hepburn shared init. Coulson was just as much aware of the prospect opening beforehim as Hepburn; but they never spoke together on the subject,although their mutual knowledge might be occasionally implied intheir conversation on their future lives. Meanwhile the Fosters wereimparting more of the background of their business to theirsuccessors. For the present, at least, the brothers meant to retainan interest in the shop, even after they had given up the activemanagement; and they sometimes thought of setting up a separateestablishment as bankers. The separation of the business,--theintroduction of their shopmen to the distant manufacturers whofurnished their goods (in those days the system of 'travellers' wasnot so widely organized as it is at present),--all these steps werein gradual progress; and already Philip saw himself in imaginationin the dignified position of joint master of the principal shop inMonkshaven, with Sylvia installed as his wife, with certainly a silkgown, and possibly a gig at her disposal. In all Philip's visions offuture prosperity, it was Sylvia who was to be aggrandized by them;his own life was to be spent as it was now, pretty much between thefour shop walls.