CHAPTER XX
LOVED AND LOST
Philip walked towards the Robsons' farm like a man in a dream, whohas everything around him according to his wish, and yet isconscious of a secret mysterious inevitable drawback to hisenjoyment. Hepburn did not care to think--would not realize whatthis drawback, which need not have been mysterious in his case, was.
The May evening was glorious in light and shadow. The crimson sunwarmed up the chilly northern air to a semblance of pleasant heat.The spring sights and sounds were all about; the lambs were bleatingout their gentle weariness before they sank to rest by the side oftheir mothers; the linnets were chirping in every bush of goldengorse that grew out of the stone walls; the lark was singing hergood-night in the cloudless sky, before she dropped down to her nestin the tender green wheat; all spoke of brooding peace--but Philip'sheart was not at peace.
Yet he was going to proclaim his good fortune. His masters had thatday publicly announced that Coulson and he were to be theirsuccessors, and he had now arrived at that longed-for point in hisbusiness, when he had resolved to openly speak of his love toSylvia, and might openly strive to gain her love. But, alas! thefulfilment of that wish of his had lagged sadly behind. He wasplaced as far as he could, even in his most sanguine moments, havehoped to be as regarded business, but Sylvia was as far from hisattainment as ever--nay, farther. Still the great obstacle wasremoved in Kinraid's impressment. Philip took upon himself to decidethat, with such a man as the specksioneer, absence was equivalent tofaithless forgetfulness. He thought that he had just grounds forthis decision in the account he had heard of Kinraid's behaviour toAnnie Coulson; to the other nameless young girl, her successor inhis fickle heart; in the ribald talk of the sailors in the Newcastlepublic-house. It would be well for Sylvia if she could forget asquickly; and, to promote this oblivion, the name of her lover shouldnever be brought up, either in praise or blame. And Philip would bepatient and enduring; all the time watching over her, and labouringto win her reluctant love.
There she was! He saw her as he stood at the top of the littlehill-path leading down to the Robsons' door. She was out of doors,in the garden, which, at some distance from the house, sloped up thebank on the opposite side of the gully; much too far off to bespoken to--not too far off to be gazed at by eyes that caressed herevery movement. How well Philip knew that garden; placed long ago bysome tenant of the farm on a southern slope; walled in with roughmoorland stones; planted with berry-bushes for use, and southernwoodand sweet-briar for sweetness of smell. When the Robsons had firstcome to Haytersbank, and Sylvia was scarcely more than a prettychild, how well he remembered helping her with the arrangement ofthis garden; laying out his few spare pence in hen-and-chickendaisies at one time, in flower-seeds at another; again in arose-tree in a pot. He knew how his unaccustomed hands had labouredwith the spade at forming a little primitive bridge over the beck inthe hollow before winter streams should make it too deep forfording; how he had cut down branches of the mountain-ash andcovered them over, yet decked with their scarlet berries, with sodsof green turf, beyond which the brilliancy crept out; but now it wasmonths and years since he had been in that garden, which had lostits charm for Sylvia, as she found the bleak sea-winds came up andblighted all endeavours at cultivating more than the most usefulthings--pot-herbs, marigolds, potatoes, onions, and such-like. Whydid she tarry there now, standing quite motionless up by the highestbit of wall, looking over the sea, with her hand shading her eyes?Quite motionless; as if she were a stone statue. He began to wishshe would move--would look at him--but any way that she would move,and not stand gazing thus over that great dreary sea.
He went down the path with an impatient step, and entered thehouse-place. There sat his aunt spinning, and apparently as well asever. He could hear his uncle talking to Kester in the neighbouringshippen; all was well in the household. Why was Sylvia standing inthe garden in that strange quiet way?
'Why, lad! thou'rt a sight for sair een!' said his aunt, as shestood up to welcome him back. 'An' when didst ta come, eh?--but thyuncle will be glad to see thee, and to hear thee talk about yonpleughs; he's thought a deal o' thy letters. I'll go call him in.'
'Not yet,' said Philip, stopping her in her progress towards thedoor. 'He's busy talking to Kester. I'm in no haste to be gone. Ican stay a couple of hours. Sit down, and tell me how you areyoursel'--and how iverything is. And I've a deal to tell you.'
'To be sure--to be sure. To think thou's been in Lunnon sin' I sawthee!--well to be sure! There's a vast o' coming and going i' thisworld. Thou'll mind yon specksioneer lad, him as was cousin to t'Corneys--Charley Kinraid?'
Mind him! As if he could forget him.
'Well! he's dead and gone.'
'Dead! Who told you? I don't understand,' said Philip, in strangebewilderment. Could Kinraid have tried to escape after all, and beenwounded, killed in the attempt? If not, how should they know he wasdead? Missing he might be, though how this should be known wasstrange, as he was supposed to be sailing to the Greenland seas. Butdead! What did they mean? At Philip's worst moment of hatred he hadhardly dared to wish him dead.
'Dunnot yo' mention it afore our Sylvie; we niver speak on him toher, for she takes it a deal to heart, though I'm thinkin' it were agood thing for her; for he'd got a hold of her--he had on BessyCorney, too, as her mother telled me;--not that I iver let on tothem as Sylvia frets after him, so keep a calm sough, my lad. It's agirl's fancy--just a kind o' calf-love; let it go by; and it's wellfor her he's dead, though it's hard to say so on a drowned man.'
'Drowned!' said Philip. 'How do yo' know?' half hoping that the poordrenched swollen body might have been found, and thus all questionsand dilemmas solved. Kinraid might have struggled overboard withropes or handcuffs on, and so have been drowned.
'Eh, lad! there's no misdoubtin' it. He were thought a deal on by t'captain o' t' _Urania_; and when he niver come back on t' day whenshe ought for to have sailed, he sent to Kinraid's people atCullercoats, and they sent to Brunton's i' Newcassel, and they knewhe'd been here. T' captain put off sailing for two or three days,that he might ha' that much law; but when he heard as Kinraid werenot at Corneys', but had left 'em a'most on to a week, he went offto them Northern seas wi' t' next best specksioneer he could find.For there's no use speaking ill on t' dead; an' though I couldn'tabear his coming for iver about t' house, he were a rare goodspecksioneer, as I've been told.'
'But how do you know he was drowned?' said Philip, feeling guiltilydisappointed at his aunt's story.
'Why, lad! I'm a'most ashamed to tell thee, I were sore put outmysel'; but Sylvia were so broken-hearted like I couldn't cast it upto her as I should ha' liked: th' silly lass had gone and gi'en hima bit o' ribbon, as many a one knowed, for it had been a vastnoticed and admired that evenin' at th' Corneys'--new year's eve Ithink it were--and t' poor vain peacock had tied it on his hat, sothat when t' tide----hist! there's Sylvie coming in at t' back-door;never let on,' and in a forced made-up voice she inquired aloud, forhitherto she had been speaking almost in a whisper,--
'And didst ta see King George an' Queen Charlotte?'
Philip could not answer--did not hear. His soul had gone out to meetSylvia, who entered with quiet slowness quite unlike her formerself. Her face was wan and white; her gray eyes seemed larger, andfull of dumb tearless sorrow; she came up to Philip, as if his beingthere touched her with no surprise, and gave him a gentle greetingas if he were a familiar indifferent person whom she had seen butyesterday. Philip, who had recollected the quarrel they had had, andabout Kinraid too, the very last time they had met, had expectedsome trace of this remembrance to linger in her looks and speech tohim. But there was no such sign; her great sorrow had wiped away allanger, almost all memory. Her mother looked at her anxiously, andthen said in the same manner of forced cheerfulness which she hadused before,--
'Here's Philip, lass, a' full o' Lunnon; call thy father in, anwe'll hear a' about t' new-fangled pleughs. It'll be rare an' nicea' sitting together again.'
Robson bustled in with loud welcome; all the louder and moretalkative because he, like his wife, assumed a cheerful mannerbefore Sylvia. Yet he, unlike his wife, had many a secret regretover Kinraid's fate. At first, while merely the fact of hisdisappearance was known, Daniel Robson had hit on the truth, and hadstuck to his opinion that the cursed press-gang were at the bottomof it. He had backed his words by many an oath, and all the morebecause he had not a single reason to give that applied to thepresent occasion. No one on the lonely coast had remarked any signof the presence of the men-of-war, or the tenders that accompaniedthem, for the purpose of impressment on the king's ships. AtShields, and at the mouth of the Tyne, where they lay in greedywait, the owners of the _Urania_ had caused strict search to be madefor their skilled and protected specksioneer, but with no success.All this positive evidence in contradiction to Daniel Robson'sopinion only made him cling to it the more; until the day when thehat was found on the shore with Kinraid's name written out large andfair in the inside, and the tell-tale bit of ribbon knotted in theband. Then Daniel, by a sudden revulsion, gave up every hope; itnever entered his mind that it could have fallen off by anyaccident. No! now Kinraid was dead and drowned, and it was a badjob, and the sooner it could be forgotten the better for allparties; and it was well no one knew how far it had gone withSylvia, especially now since Bessy Corney was crying her eyes out asif he had been engaged to her. So Daniel said nothing to his wifeabout the mischief that had gone on in her absence, and never spoketo Sylvia about the affair; only he was more than usually tender toher in his rough way, and thought, morning, noon, and night, on whathe could do to give her pleasure, and drive away all recollection ofher ill-starred love.
To-night he would have her sit by him while Philip told his stories,or heavily answered questions put to him. Sylvia sat on a stool byher father's knee, holding one of his hands in both of hers; andpresently she laid down her head upon them, and Philip saw her sadeyes looking into the flickering fire-light with long unwinkingstare, showing that her thoughts were far distant. He could hardlygo on with his tales of what he had seen, and what done, he was sofull of pity for her. Yet, for all his pity, he had now resolvednever to soothe her with the knowledge of what he knew, nor todeliver the message sent by her false lover. He felt like a motherwithholding something injurious from the foolish wish of herplaining child.
But he went away without breathing a word of his good fortune inbusiness. The telling of such kind of good fortune seemed out ofplace this night, when the thought of death and the loss of friendsseemed to brood over the household, and cast its shadow there,obscuring for the time all worldly things.
And so the great piece of news came out in the ordinary course ofgossip, told by some Monkshaven friend to Robson the next marketday. For months Philip had been looking forward to the sensationwhich the intelligence would produce in the farm household, as apreliminary to laying his good fortune at Sylvia's feet. And theyheard of it, and he away, and all chance of his making use of it inthe manner he had intended vanished for the present.
Daniel was always curious after other people's affairs, and now wasmore than ever bent on collecting scraps of news which mightpossibly interest Sylvia, and rouse her out of the state ofindifference as to everything into which she had fallen. Perhaps hethought that he had not acted altogether wisely in allowing her toengage herself to Kinraid, for he was a man apt to judge by results;and moreover he had had so much reason to repent of theencouragement which he had given to the lover whose untimely end hadso deeply affected his only child, that he was more unwilling thanever that his wife should know of the length to which the affair hadgone during her absence. He even urged secrecy upon Sylvia as apersonal favour; unwilling to encounter the silent blame which heopenly affected to despise.
'We'll noane fret thy mother by lettin' on how oft he came and went.She'll, may-be, be thinkin' he were for speakin' to thee, my poorlass; an' it would put her out a deal, for she's a woman of a sternmind towards matteremony. And she'll be noane so strong tillsummer-weather comes, and I'd be loath to give her aught to worrithersel' about. So thee and me 'll keep our own counsel.'
'I wish mother had been here, then she'd ha' known all, without mytelling her.'
'Cheer up, lass; it's better as it is. Thou'll get o'er it soonerfor havin' no one to let on to. A myself am noane going to speakon't again.'
No more he did; but there was a strange tenderness in his tones whenhe spoke to her; a half-pathetic way of seeking after her, if by anychance she was absent for a minute from the places where he expectedto find her; a consideration for her, about this time, in his way ofbringing back trifling presents, or small pieces of news that hethought might interest her, which sank deep into her heart.
'And what dun yo' think a' t' folks is talkin' on i' Monkshaven?'asked he, almost before he had taken off his coat, on the day whenhe had heard of Philip's promotion in the world. 'Why, missus, thynephew, Philip Hepburn, has got his name up i' gold letters fourinch long o'er Fosters' door! Him and Coulson has set up shoptogether, and Fosters is gone out!'
'That's t' secret of his journey t' Lunnon,' said Bell, moregratified than she chose to show.
'Four inch long if they're theere at all! I heerd on it at t' BayHorse first; but I thought yo'd niver be satisfied 'bout I seed itwi' my own eyes. They do say as Gregory Jones, t' plumber, got itdone i' York, for that nought else would satisfy old Jeremiah. It'llbe a matter o' some hundreds a year i' Philip's pocket.'
'There'll be Fosters i' th' background, as one may say, to take t'biggest share on t' profits,' said Bell.
'Ay, ay, that's but as it should be, for I reckon they'll ha' tofind t' brass the first, my lass!' said he, turning to Sylvia. 'A'mfain to tak' thee in to t' town next market-day, just for thee t'see 't. A'll buy thee a bonny ribbon for thy hair out o' t' cousin'sown shop.'
Some thought of another ribbon which had once tied up her hair, andafterwards been cut in twain, must have crossed Sylvia's mind, forshe answered, as if she shrank from her father's words,--
'I cannot go, I'm noane wantin' a ribbon; I'm much obliged, father,a' t' same.'
Her mother read her heart clearly, and suffered with her, but neverspoke a word of sympathy. But she went on rather more quickly thanshe would otherwise have done to question her husband as to all heknew about this great rise of Philip's. Once or twice Sylvia joinedin with languid curiosity; but presently she became tired and wentto bed. For a few moments after she left, her parents sate silent.Then Daniel, in a tone as if he were justifying his daughter, andcomforting himself as well as his wife, observed that it was almoston for nine; the evenings were light so long now. Bell said nothingin reply, but gathered up her wool, and began to arrange the thingsfor night.
By-and-by Daniel broke the silence by saying,--
'A thowt at one time as Philip had a fancy for our Sylvie.'
For a minute or two Bell did not speak. Then, with deeper insightinto her daughter's heart than her husband, in spite of his greaterknowledge of the events that had happened to affect it, she said,--
'If thou's thinking on a match between 'em, it 'll be a long timeafore th' poor sad wench is fit t' think on another man assweetheart.'
'A said nought about sweethearts,' replied he, as if his wife hadreproached him in some way. 'Woman's allays so full o' sweetheartsand matteremony. A only said as a'd thowt once as Philip had a fancyfor our lass, and a think so still; and he'll be worth his twohunder a year afore long. But a niver said nought aboutsweethearts.'
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