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SYLVIA'S LOVERS 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. GASKELL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE," " MART BARTON," 
 " RUTH," " NORTH AND SOUTH," ETC. 
 
 Oh for thy voice to soothe and bless 
 What hope of answer, or redress? 
 Behind the veil Behind the veil!— Tennyson. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 LONDON: 
 * SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL. 
 
 M.DCCC.LXIII. 
 
[The right of Translation is reserved.] 
 
•f 7/D 
 
 CONTENTS TO VOL. III. 
 
 Chap. Page 
 
 I. Happy. Days 1 
 
 II. Evil Omens 22 
 
 III. Rescued from the Waves 38 
 
 IV. An Apparition 58 
 
 V. A Reckless Recruit 75 
 
 VI. Things Unutterable 91 
 
 VII. Mysterious Tidings 106 
 
 VIII. Bereavement 130 
 
 IX. The Recognition 147 
 
 X. Confidences v . 165 
 
 XI. An Unexpected Messenger 185 
 
 XII. The Bedesman op St. Sepulchre 197 
 
 XIII. A Fable at Fault 216 
 
 XIV. The Unknown 230 
 
 XV. First Words 247 
 
 XVI. Saved and Lost '. 261 
 
 ±mm® 
 
SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 And now Philip seemed as prosperous as his heart 
 could desire. The business flourished, and money 
 beyond his moderate wants came in. As for him- 
 self he required very little ; but he had always 
 looked forward to placing his idol in a befitting 
 shrine ; and means for this were now furnished to 
 him. The dress, the comforts, the position he had 
 desired for Sylvia were all hers. She did not need 
 to do a stroke of household work if she preferred 
 to " sit in her parlour and sew up a seam." Indeed 
 Phoebe resented any interference in the domestic 
 labour, which she had performed so long that she 
 looked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her 
 own. " Mrs. Hepburn " (as Sylvia was now termed) 
 had a good dark silk gown -piece in her drawers, as 
 TOL. III. 40 
 
2 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 well as the poor dove-coloured, against the day when 
 she chose to leave off mourning ; and stuff for either 
 grey or scarlet cloaks was hers at her bidding. 
 
 What she cared for far more were the comforts with 
 which it was in her power to surround her mother. In 
 this Philip vied with her ; for besides his old love, 
 and new pity for his aunt Bell, he never forgot how 
 she had welcomed him to Haytersbank, and favoured 
 his love to Sylvia, in the yearning days when he 
 little hoped he should ever win his cousin to be his 
 wife. But even if he had not had these grateful and 
 affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, he 
 would have done much for her if only to gain the 
 sweet, rare smiles which his wife never bestowed 
 upon him so freely as when she saw him attending to 
 ce mother," for so both of them now called Bell. For 
 her creature comforts, her silk gowns, and her 
 humble luxury, Sylvia did not care; Philip was 
 almost annoyed at the indifference she often mani- 
 fested to all his efforts to surround her with such 
 things. It was even a hardship to her to leave off 
 her country dress, her uncovered hair, her linsey 
 petticoat, and loose bed-gown, and to don a stiff and 
 stately gown for her morning dress. Sitting in the 
 dark parlour at the back of the shop, and doing 
 " white work," was much more wearying to her than 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 3 
 
 running out into the fields to bring up the cows, or 
 spinning wool, or making up butter. She sometimes 
 thought to herself that it was a strange kind of life 
 where there were no out-door animals to look after ; 
 the ce ox and the ass * had hitherto come into all her 
 ideas of humanity ; and her care and gentleness had 
 made the dumb creatures round her father's home 
 into mute friends with loving eyes, looking at her as 
 if wistful to speak in words the grateful regard that 
 she could read without the poor expression of 
 language. 
 
 She missed the free open air, the great dome of sky 
 above the fields ; she rebelled against the necessity of 
 cc dressing " (as she called it) to go out, although she 
 acknowledged that it was a necessity where the first 
 step beyond the threshold must be into a populous 
 street. 
 
 It is possible that Philip was right at one time 
 when he had thought to win her by material advan- 
 tages ; but the old vanities had been burnt out of her 
 by the hot iron of acute suffering. A great deal of 
 passionate feeling still existed, concealed and latent ; 
 but at this period it appeared as though she were 
 indifferent to most things, and had lost the power of 
 either hoping or fearing much. She was stunned 
 into a sort of temporary numbness on most points j 
 
 40—2 
 
4 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 those on which she was sensitive being such as 
 referred to the injustice and oppression of her father's 
 death, or anything that concerned her mother. 
 
 She was quiet even to passiveness in all her deal- 
 ings with Philip ; he would have given a great deal 
 for some of the old bursts of impatience, the old pettish- 
 ness, which, naughty as they were, had gone to form 
 his idea of the former Sylvia. Once or twice he was 
 almost vexed with her for her docility ; he wanted 
 her so much to have a will of her own, if only that 
 he might know how to rouse her to pleasure by 
 gratifying it. Indeed he seldom fell asleep at nights 
 without his last thoughts being devoted to some 
 little plan for the morrow, that he fancied she would 
 like ; and when he wakened in the early 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 in the same way as his for her, but he 
 found much happiness in only being allowed to love 
 and cherish her ; and with the patient perseverance 
 that was one remarkable feature in his character, he 
 went on striving to deepen and increase her love 
 when most other men would have given up the 
 endeavour, made themselves content with half a 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 5 
 
 hearty and turned to some other object of attainment. 
 All this time Philip was troubled by a dream that 
 recurred whenever he was over-fatigued, or other- 
 wise not in perfect health. Over and over again in 
 this first year of married life he dreamt this dream ; 
 perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never 
 varied. It was always of Kinraid's return ; Kinraid 
 was full of life in Philip's dream, though, in his 
 waking hours he could and did convince himself by 
 all the laws of ^probability that his rival was dead. 
 He never remembered the exact sequence of events 
 in that terrible dream after he had roused himself, 
 with a fight and a struggle, from his feverish slum- 
 bers. He was generally sitting up in bed when he 
 found himself conscious ; his heart beating wildly, with 
 a conviction of Kinraid's living presence somewhere 
 near him in the darkness. Occasionally Sylvia was 
 disturbed by his agitation, and would question him 
 about his dreams, having, like most of her class at 
 that time, great faith in their prophetic interpretation : 
 but Philip never gave her any truth in his reply. 
 
 After all, and though he did not acknowledge it 
 even to himself, the long-desired happiness was not 
 so delicious and perfect as he had anticipated. Many 
 have felt the same in their first year of married life ; 
 but the faithful, patient nature that still works on, 
 
6 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 striving to gain love, and capable itself of steady 
 love all the while, is a gift not given to all. 
 
 For many weeks after their wedding, Kester never 
 came near them : a chance word or two from Sylvia 
 showed Philip that she had noticed this and regretted 
 it ; and, accordingly, he made it his business at the 
 next leisure opportunity to go to Hay tersbank (never 
 saying a word to his wife of his purpose), and seek 
 out Kester. 
 
 All the whole place was altered ! It was new 
 white-washed, new thatched; the patches of colour 
 in the surrounding ground were changed with altered 
 tillage; the great geraniums were gone from the 
 window, and, instead, was a smart knitted blind. 
 Children played before the house door ; a dog lying 
 on the step flew at Philip ; all was so strange, that 
 it was even the strangest thing of all for Kester to 
 appear where everything else was so altered ! 
 
 Philip had to put up with a good deal of crabbed 
 behaviour on the part of the latter, before he could 
 induce Kester to promise to come down into the town 
 and see Sylvia in her new home. 
 
 Somehow, the visit when paid was but a failure ; 
 at least, it seemed so at the time, though probably it 
 broke the ice of restraint which was forming over the 
 familiar intercourse between Kester and Sylvia. The 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 7 
 
 old servant was daunted by seeing Sylvia in a strange 
 place, and stood, sleeking his hair down, and furtively 
 looking about him, instead of seating himself on 
 the chair Sylvia had so eagerly brought forward 
 for him. 
 
 Then his sense of the estrangement caused by 
 their new positions infected her, and she began to 
 cry pitifully, saying, — 
 
 m Oh, Kester ! Kester ! tell me about Hayters- 
 bank ! Is it just as it used to be in father's days ? " 
 
 • Well, a cannot say as it is," said Kester, thank- 
 ful to have a subject started. " They'n ploughed up 
 t' oud pasture-field, and are setting it for 'taters. 
 They're not for much cattle, isn't Higginses. They'll 
 be for corn in it next year, a reckon, and they'll 
 just ha' their pains for their payment. But they're 
 allays so pig-headed, is folk fra a distance." 
 
 So they went on discoursing on Haytersbank and 
 the old days, till Bell Robson, having finished her 
 afternoon nap, came slowly downstairs to join them ; 
 and after that the conversation became so broken up, 
 from the desire of the other two to attend and reply 
 as best they could to her fragmentary and disjointed 
 talk, that Kester took his leave before long ; falling, 
 as he did so, into the formal and unnaturally respect- 
 ful manner which he had adopted on first coming in. 
 
8 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 But Sylvia ran after him, and brought him hack 
 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, in all the glow and hurry of a young 
 housekeeper's hospitality, sought for the decanter of 
 wine, and a wine-glass in the corner cupboard, and 
 hastily cut an immense wedge of cake, which she 
 crammed into his hand in spite of his remonstrances ; 
 and then she poured him out an overflowing glass 
 of wine, which Kester would far rather have gone 
 without, as he knew manners too well to suppose 
 that he might taste it without having gone through 
 the preliminary ceremony of wishing the donor 
 health and happiness. He stood red and half smiling 
 with his cake in one hand, his wine in the other, 
 and then began, — 
 
 " Long may ye' live, 
 Happy may ye be, 
 And blest with a num'rous 
 Pro-ge-ny." 
 
 te There, that's poetry for ye as I larnt i' my 
 youth. But there's a deal to be said as cannot be 
 put int' po'try, an' yet a cannot say it, somehow. 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 9 
 
 It would tax a parson t' say all as I've getten i' my 
 mind. It's like a heap o' wool just after shearing 
 time ; it's worth a deal, but it tak's a vast o' combing, 
 and carding, and spinning afore it can be made use 
 on. If a were up to t' use o' words, a could say 
 a mighty deal ; but somehow a 'm tongue-teed when 
 a come to want my words most, so a '11 only just 
 mak' bold t' say as a think yo've done pretty well 
 for yo'rsel', getten a house-full of furniture, (look- 
 ing around him as he said this,) and vittle and 
 clothing for t' axing, belike, an' a home for t' 
 missus in her time o' need; an' mebbe not such a 
 bad husband as a once thought yon man would 
 mak'; a 'm not above saying as he's mebbe better 
 nor a took him for ; — so here's to ye both, and 
 wishing ye health and happiness, ay, and money 
 to buy yo' another, as country folk say." 
 
 Having ended his oration much to his own satis- 
 faction, Kester tossed off his glass of wine, smacked 
 his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, 
 pocketed his cake, and made off. 
 
 That night Sylvia spoke of his visit to her hus- 
 band. Philip never said how he himself had brought 
 it to pass, nor did he name the fact that he had heard 
 the old man come in just as he himself had intended 
 going into the parlour for tea, but had kept away, 
 
10 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 as he thought Sylvia and Kester would most enjoy 
 their interview undisturbed. And Sylvia felt as if 
 her husband's silence was unsympathizing, and shut 
 up the feelings that were just beginning to expand 
 towards him. She sank again into the listless state 
 of indifference from which nothing but some re- 
 ference to former days, or present consideration for 
 her mother, could rouse her. 
 
 Hester was almost surprised at Sylvia's evident 
 liking for her. By slow degrees Hester was learning 
 to love the woman, whose position as Philip's wife 
 she would have envied so keenly had she not been 
 so truly good and pious. But Sylvia seemed as 
 though she had given Hester her whole affection 
 all at once. Hester could not understand this, 
 while she was touched and melted by the trust it 
 implied. For one thing Sylvia remembered and 
 regretted — her harsh treatment of Hester the rainy, 
 stormy night on which the latter had come to 
 Haytersbank to seek her and her mother, and bring 
 them into Monkshaven to see the imprisoned father 
 and husband. Sylvia had been struck with Hester's 
 patient endurance of her rudeness, a rudeness which 
 she was conscious that she herself should have imme- 
 diately and vehemently resented. Sylvia did not 
 understand how a totally different character from 
 
HAPPY BAYS. 
 
 11 
 
 hers might immediately forgive the anger she could 
 not forget; and because Hester had been so meek 
 at the time, Sylvia, who knew how passing and 
 transitory was her own anger, thought that all was 
 forgotten; while Hester believed that the words, 
 which she herself could not have uttered except 
 under deep provocation, meant much more than they 
 did, and admired and wondered at Sylvia for having 
 so entirely conquered her anger against her. 
 
 Again, the two different women were divergently 
 affected by the extreme fondness which Bell had 
 shown towards Hester ever since Sylvia's wedding- 
 day. Sylvia, who had always received more love 
 from others than she knew what to do with, had 
 the most entire faith in her own supremacy in 
 her mother's heart, though at times Hester would 
 do certain things more to the poor old woman's 
 satisfaction. Hester, who had craved for the affec- 
 tion which had been withheld from her, and had 
 from that one circumstance become distrustful of 
 her own power of inspiring regard, while she ex- 
 aggerated the delight of being beloved, feared lest 
 Sylvia should become jealous of her mother's open 
 display of great attachment and occasional prefer- 
 ence for Hester. But such a thought never entered 
 Sylvia's mind. She was more thankful than she 
 
12 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 knew how to express towards any one who made 
 her mother happy; as has been already said, the 
 contributing to Bell Robson's pleasures earned Philip 
 more of his wife's smiles than anything else. And 
 Sylvia threw her whole heart into the words and 
 caresses she lavished on Hester whenever poor 
 Mrs. Robson spoke of the goodness and kindness 
 of the latter. Hester attributed more virtue to these 
 sweet words and deeds of gratitude than they 
 deserved ; they did not imply in Sylvia any victory 
 over evil temptation, as they would have done in 
 Hester. 
 
 It seemed to be Sylvia's fate to captivate more 
 people than she cared to like back again. She 
 turned the heads of John and Jeremiah Foster, 
 who could hardly congratulate Philip enough on his 
 choice of a wife. 
 
 They had been prepared to be critical on one 
 who had interfered with their favourite project of a 
 marriage between Philip and Hester; and, though 
 full of compassion for the cruelty of Daniel Robson's 
 fate, they were too completely men of business not 
 to have some apprehension that the connection of 
 Philip Hepburn with the daughter of a man who 
 was hanged, might injure the shop over which both 
 his and their name appeared. But all the possible 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 13 
 
 proprieties demanded that they should pay attention 
 to the bride of their former shopman and present 
 successor; and the very first visitors whom Sylvia 
 had received after her marriage had been John 
 and Jeremiah Foster, in their sabbath-day clothes. 
 They found her in the parlour (so familiar to both 
 of them ! ) clear-starching her mother's caps, which 
 had to be got up in some particular fashion that 
 Sylvia was afraid of dictating to Phoebe. 
 
 She was a little disturbed at her visitors dis- 
 covering her at this employment; but she was on 
 her own ground, and that gave her self-possession ; 
 and she welcomed the two old men so sweetly and 
 modestly, and looked so pretty and feminine, and, 
 besides, so notable in her handiwork, that she con- 
 quered all their prejudices at one blow : and their 
 first thought on leaving the shop was how to do 
 her honour, by inviting her to a supper party at 
 Jeremiah Foster's house. 
 
 Sylvia was dismayed when she was bidden to 
 this wedding feast, and Philip had to use all his 
 authority, though tenderly, to make her consent to 
 go at all. She had been to merry country parties 
 like the Corneys', and to bright hay-making romps 
 in the open air; but never to a set stately party at a 
 friend's house. 
 
14 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 She would fain have made attendance on her 
 mother an excuse ; but Philip knew he must not 
 listen to any such plea, and applied to Hester in 
 the dilemma, asking her to remain with Mrs. Robson 
 while he and Sylvia went out visiting ; and Hester 
 had willingly, nay, eagerly consented — it was much 
 more to her taste than going out. 
 
 So Philip and Sylvia set out, arm-in-arm, down 
 Bridge Street, across the bridge, and then 
 clambered up the hill. On the way, he gave her 
 the directions she asked for about her behaviour 
 as bride and most honoured guest; and altogether 
 succeeded, against his intention and will, in fright- 
 ening her so completely as to the grandeur and 
 importance of the occasion, and the necessity of 
 remembering certain set rules, and making certain 
 set speeches and attending to them when the right 
 time came, that, if any one so naturally graceful 
 could have been awkward, Sylvia would have been 
 so that night. 
 
 As it was, she sate, pale and weary-looking, on 
 the very edge of her chair ; she uttered the formal 
 words which Philip had told her were appropriate 
 to the occasion, and she heartily wished herself safe 
 at home and in bed. Yet she left but one unanimous 
 impression on the company when she went away, 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 15 
 
 namely, that she was the prettiest and best-behaved 
 woman they had ever seen, and that Philip Hep- 
 burn had done well in choosing her, felon's daughter 
 though she might be. 
 
 Both the hosts had followed her into the lobby 
 to help Philip in cloaking her, and putting on her 
 pattens. They were full of old-fashioned compli- 
 ments and good wishes ; one speech of theirs came 
 up to her memory in future years : — 
 
 " JSTow, Sylvia Hepburn," said J eremiah, <e I have 
 known thy husband long, and I don't say but what 
 thou hast done well in choosing him ; but if he ever 
 neglects or ill-uses thee, come to me, and I'll give 
 him a sound lecture on his conduct. Mind, I'm thy 
 friend from this day forrards, and ready to take 
 thy part against him ! " 
 
 Philip smiled as if the day would never come 
 when he should neglect or ill-use his darling ; Sylvia 
 smiled a little, without much attending to, or caring 
 for, the words that were detaining her, tired as she 
 was ; John and Jeremiah chuckled over the joke ; but 
 the words came up again in after days, as words idly 
 spoken sometimes do. 
 
 Before the end of that first year, Philip had learnt 
 to be jealous of his wife's new love for Hester. To 
 the latter, Sylvia gave the free confidence on many 
 
16 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 tilings which Philip fancied she withheld from him. 
 A suspicion crossed his mind, from time to time, 
 that Sylvia might speak of her former lover to 
 Hester. It would be not unnatural, he thought, 
 if she did so, believing him to be dead; but the idea 
 irritated him. 
 
 He was entirely mistaken, however ; Sylvia, with 
 all her apparent frankness, kept her deep sorrows to 
 herself. She never mentioned her father's name, 
 though he was continually present to her mind. Nor 
 did she speak of Kinraid to human being, though, 
 for his sake, her voice softened when, by chance, she 
 spoke to a passing sailor ; and for his sake her eyes 
 lingered on such men longer than on others, trying 
 to discover in them something of the old familiar 
 gait; and partly for his dead sake, and partly because 
 of the freedom of the outlook and the freshness of 
 the air, she was glad occasionally to escape from the 
 comfortable imprisonment of her "parlour," and the 
 close streets around the market place, and to mount 
 the cliffs and sit on the turf, gazing abroad over the 
 wide still expanse of the open sea ; for, at that 
 height, even breaking waves only looked like broken 
 lines of white foam on the blue watery plain. 
 
 She did not want any companion on these rambles, 
 which had somewhat of the delight of stolen plea- 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 17 
 
 sures; for all the other respectable matrons and 
 town-dwellers whom she knew were content to have 
 always a business object for their walk, or else 
 to stop at home in their own households ; and Sylvia 
 was rather ashamed of her own yearnings for 
 solitude and open air, and the sight and sound of 
 the mother-like sea. She used to take off her hat, 
 and sit there, her hands clasping her knees, the salt 
 air lifting her bright curls, gazing at the distant 
 horizon over the sea, in a sad dreaminess of thought ; 
 if she had been asked on what she meditated, she 
 could not have 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 her side — her child, 
 Philip's child. His pride, his delight knew no 
 bounds : this was a new fast tie between them, this 
 would reconcile her to the kind of life that, with all 
 its respectability and comfort, was so different from 
 what she had lived before, and which Philip had often 
 perceived that she had felt to be dull and restrain- 
 ing. 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's face. Sylvia, too, 
 pale, still, and weak, was very happy; yes, really 
 happy for the first time since her irrevocable mar- 
 
 yol. in. 41 
 
18 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 riage. For its irrevocableness had weighed much 
 upon her with a sense of dull hopelessness; she 
 felt all Philip's kindness, she was grateful to 
 him for his tender regard towards her mother, 
 she was learning to love him as well as to like 
 and respect him. She did not know what else 
 she could have done but marry so true a friend, 
 and she and her mother so friendless; but, at the 
 same time, it was like lead on her morning spirits 
 when she awoke and remembered that the decision 
 was made, the deed was done, the choice taken 
 which comes to most people but once in their lives. 
 Now the little baby came in upon this state of mind 
 like a ray of sunlight into a gloomy room. 
 
 Even her mother was rejoiced and proud; even 
 with her crazed brain and broken heart, the sight of 
 sweet, peaceful infancy brought light to her. All 
 the old ways of holding a baby, of hushing it to sleep, 
 of tenderly guarding its little limbs from injury, 
 came back, like the habits of her youth, to Bell ; and 
 she was never so happy or so easy in her mind, or so 
 sensible and connected in her ideas, as when she had 
 Sylvia's baby in her arms. 
 
 It was a pretty sight to see, however familiar 
 to all of us such things may be, the pale, worn 
 old woman, in her quaint, old-fashioned country 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 19 
 
 dress, holding the little infant on her knees, look- 
 ing at its open, unspeculative eyes, and talking 
 the little language to it as though it could under- 
 derstand ; the father on his knees, kept prisoner by 
 a small, small finger curled round his strong and 
 sinewy one, and gazing at the tiny creature with 
 wondering idolatry; the young mother, fair, pale, 
 and smiling, propped up on pillows in order that she, 
 too, might see the wonderful babe : it was astonish- 
 ing how the doctor could come and go without being 
 drawn into the admiring vortex, and look at this 
 baby just as if babies came into the world every day. 
 
 (C Philip," said Sylvia, one night, as he sate as still 
 as a mouse in her room, imagining her to be asleep. 
 He was by her bed-side in a moment. 
 
 " I've been thinking what she's to be called. 
 Isabella, after mother ; and what were yo'r mother's 
 name ? " 
 
 6e Margaret," said he. 
 
 " Margaret Isabella ; Isabella Margaret. Mother's 
 called Bell. She might be called Bella." 
 
 se 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 and mine. And I want for to ask 
 Hester to be godmother." 
 
 41—2 
 
20 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " Anything thou likes, sweetheart. Shall we call 
 her Kose, after Hester Eose ? " 
 
 " No, no ! " said Sylvia, " she must be called after 
 my mother or thine, or both. I should like her to 
 be called Bella, after mother, because she's so fond 
 of baby." 
 
 " Anything to please thee, darling." 
 
 ee Don't say that as if it didn't signify ; there's a 
 deal in having a pretty name," said Sylvia, a little 
 annoyed. " I ha' allays hated being called Sylvia. 
 It were after father's mother, Sylvia Steele." 
 
 " I niver thought any name in a' the world so 
 sweet and pretty as Sylvia," said Philip, fondly ; but 
 she was too much absorbed in her own thoughts to 
 notice either his manner or his words. 
 
 " There, you'll not mind if it is Bella, because yo' 
 see my mother is alive to be pleased by it's being 
 named after her, and Hester may be godmother, and 
 I'll ha' t' dove-coloured silk as yo' gave me afore 
 we 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 will be too good for the baby." 
 
 « Eh ! but I'm so careless, I should be spilling 
 something on it ! But if thou got it for me I cannot 
 find i' my heart for t' wear it on baby, and I'll have 
 
HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 21 
 
 it made into a christening-gown for myseP. But I'll 
 niver feel at my ease in it, for fear o' spoiling it." 
 
 " Well ! an' if thou does spoil it, love, I'll get thee 
 another. I make account of riches only for thee ; 
 that I may be able to get thee whativer thou's a 
 fancy for, for either thysel', or thy mother." 
 
 She lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put 
 up her lips to kiss him for these words. 
 
 Perhaps on that day Philip reached the zenith of 
 his life's happiness. 
 
22 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 EVIL OMENS. 
 
 The first step in Philip's declension happened in this 
 way. Sylvia had made rapid progress in her re- 
 covery ; but now she seemed at a stationary point of 
 weakness ; wakeful nights succeeding to languid 
 days. Occasionally she caught a little sleep in the 
 afternoons, but she usually awoke startled and 
 feverish. 
 
 One afternoon Philip had stolen upstairs to 
 look at her and his child; but the efforts he made 
 at careful noiselessness made the door creak on its 
 hinges as he opened it. The woman employed to 
 nurse her had taken the baby into another room that 
 no sound might rouse her from her slumber; and 
 Philip would probably have been warned against 
 entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping had 
 he been perceived by the nurse. As it was he opened 
 the door, made a noise, and Sylvia started up, her 
 face all one flush, her eyes wild and uncertain ; she 
 
EVIL OMENS. 
 
 23 
 
 looked about lier as if she did not know where she 
 was ; pushed the hair off her hot forehead ; all which 
 actions Philip saw, dismayed and regretful. But he 
 kept still, hoping that she would lie down and com- 
 pose herself. Instead she stretched out her arms 
 imploringly, and said in a voice full of yearning and 
 tears, 
 
 ee Oh ! Charley ! come to me, come to me ! " and 
 then as she more fully became aware of the place 
 where she was, her actual situation, she sank back 
 and feebly began to cry. Philip's heart boiled 
 within him ; any man's would under the circum- 
 stances, but he had the sense of guilty concealment 
 to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. Her weak 
 cry after another man, too, irritated him, partly 
 through his anxious love, which made him wise to 
 know how much physical harm she was doing herself. 
 At this moment he stirred, or unintentionally made 
 some sound ; she started up afresh, and called out, 
 
 " Oh, who is there ? Do, for God's sake, tell me 
 who yo' are ! " 
 
 " It's me," said Philip, coming forwards, striving 
 to keep down the miserable complication of love 
 and jealousy, and remorse and anger, that made his 
 heart beat so wildly, and almost took him out of 
 himself. Indeed, he must have been quite beside 
 
24 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 
 himself for the time, or he could never have gone 
 on to utter the unwise, cruel words he did. But 
 she spoke first, in a distressed and plaintive tone of 
 voice. 
 
 "Oh, Philip, I've been asleep, and yet I think I 
 was awake ! And I saw Charley Kinraid as plain 
 as iver I see thee now, and he wasn't drowned 
 at all. I'm sure he's alive somewhere; he were so 
 clear and life-like. Oh! what shall I do? what 
 shall I do ? " 
 
 She wrung her hands in feverish distress. Urged 
 by passionate feelings of various kinds, and also by 
 his desire to quench the agitation which was doing 
 her harm, Philip spoke, hardly knowing what he 
 said. 
 
 " Kinraid's dead, I tell ye, Sylvia ! And what 
 kind of a woman are ye to go dreaming of another 
 man in this way, and taking on so about him, when 
 yo're a wedded wife, with a child as yo've borne 
 to another man ? " 
 
 In a moment he could have bitten out his tongue. 
 She looked at him with the mute reproach which 
 some of us see (God help us!) in the eyes of 
 the dead, as they come before our sad memories 
 in the night-season; looked at him with such a 
 solemn, searching look, never saying a word of 
 
EVIL OMENS. 
 
 25 
 
 reply or defence. Then she lay down, motion- 
 less and silent. He had been instantly stung with 
 remorse for his speech ; the words were not beyond 
 his lips when an agony had entered his heart ; but 
 her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumb and 
 motionless as if by a spell. 
 
 Now he rushed to the bed on which she lay, 
 and half knelt, half threw himself upon it, imploring 
 her to forgive him; regardless for the time of any 
 evil consequences to her, it seemed as if he must 
 have her pardon — her relenting — at any price, even 
 if they both died in the act of reconciliation. But she 
 lay speechless, and, as far as she could be, motion- 
 less, the bed trembling under her with the quivering 
 she could not still. 
 
 Philip's wild tones caught the nurse's ears, and she 
 entered full of the dignified indignation of wisdom. 
 
 " Are yo' for killing yo'r wife, measter ? " she 
 asked. fe She's noan so strong as she can bear 
 flyting and scolding, nor will she be for many a 
 week to come. Go down wi' ye, and leave her in 
 peace if yo're a man as can be called a man ! " 
 
 Her anger was rising as she caught sight of 
 Sylvia's averted face. It was flushed crimson, her 
 eyes full of intense emotion of some kind, her lips 
 compressed ; but an involuntary twitching over- 
 
26 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 mastering her resolute stillness from time to time. 
 Philip, who did not see the averted face, nor under- 
 stand the real danger in which he was placing his 
 wife, felt as though he must have one word, one 
 responsive touch of the hand which lay passive in 
 his, which was not even drawn away from the kisses 
 with which he covered it, any more than if it had 
 been an impassive stone. The nurse had fairly to take 
 him by the shoulders, and turn him out of the room. 
 
 In half an hour the doctor had to be summoned. 
 Of course, the nurse gave him her version of the 
 events of the afternoon, with much animus against 
 Philip ; and the doctor thought it his duty to have 
 some very serious conversation with him. 
 
 " I do assure you, Mr. Hepburn, that, in the state 
 your wife has been in for some days, it was little 
 less than madness on your part to speak to her about 
 anything that could give rise to strong emotion." 
 
 m It was madness, sir ! " replied Philip, in a low, 
 miserable tone of voice. The doctor's heart was 
 touched, in spite of the nurse's accusations against 
 the scolding husband. Yet the danger was now too 
 serious for him to mince matters. 
 
 "I must tell you that I cannot answer for her 
 life, unless the greatest precautions are taken on 
 your part, and unless the measures I shall use 
 
EVIL OMENS. 27 
 
 ft- ' *'* • 
 
 have the effect I wish for in the next twenty-four 
 hours. She is on the verge of a brain fever. Any 
 allusion to the subject which has been the final cause 
 of the state in which she now is must be most 
 cautiously avoided, even to a chance word which 
 may bring it to her memory." 
 
 And so on; but Philip seemed to hear only this: 
 then he might not express contrition, or sue for 
 pardon, he must go on unforgiven through all this 
 stress of anxiety; and even if she recovered the 
 doctor warned him of the undesirableness of re- 
 curring to what had past ! 
 
 Heavy miserable times of endurance and wait- 
 ing have to be passed through by all during the 
 course of their lives ; and Philip had had his share 
 of such seasons, when the heart and the will and the 
 speech and the limbs must be bound down with strong 
 resolution to patience. 
 
 For many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden 
 to see Sylvia, as the very sound of his footstep 
 brought on a recurrence of the fever and convulsive 
 movement. Yet she seemed, from questions she 
 feebly asked the nurse, to have forgotten all that 
 had happened on the day of her attack from the 
 time when she had dropped off to sleep. But how 
 much she remembered of after occurrences no one 
 
28 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 could ascertain. She was quiet enough when at 
 length Philip was allowed to see her. But he was 
 half-jealous of his child, when he watched how she 
 could smile at it, while she never changed a muscle 
 of her face at all he could do or say. 
 
 And of a piece with this extreme quietude and 
 reserve was her behaviour to him when at length she 
 had fully recovered, and was able to go about the 
 house again. Philip thought many a time of the 
 words she had used long before — before their mar- 
 riage. Ominous words they were. 
 
 (S It's not in me to forgive ; I sometimes think it's 
 not in me to forget." 
 
 Philip was tender even to humility in his conduct 
 towards her. But nothing stirred her from her 
 fortress of reserve. And he knew she was so dif- 
 ferent ; he knew how loving, nay, passionate was her 
 nature — vehement, demonstrative — oh! how could 
 he stir her once more into expression, even if the 
 first show or speech she made was of anger ! Then 
 he tried being angry with her himself ; he was some- 
 times unjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in 
 order to provoke her into defending herself, and 
 appealing against his unkindness. He only seemed 
 to drive her love away still more. 
 
 If any one had known all that was passing in 
 
EVIL OMENS. 
 
 29 
 
 that household, while yet the story of it was not 
 ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis, their hearts 
 would have been sorry for the man who lingered 
 long at the door of the room in which his wife sate 
 cooing and talking to her baby, and sometimes laugh- 
 ing back to it, or who was soothing the querulousness 
 of failing age with every possible patience of love ; 
 sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for 
 the profusion of tenderness thus scattered on the 
 senseless air, yet only by stealth caught the echoes of 
 what ought to have been his. 
 
 It was so difficult to complain, too ; impossible, in 
 fact. Everything that a wife could do from duty 
 she did ; but the love seemed to have fled, and, in 
 such cases, no reproaches or complaints can avail 
 to bring it back. So reason out-siders, and are 
 convinced of the result before the experiment is 
 made. But Philip could not reason, or could not 
 yield to reason ; and so he complained and re- 
 proached. She did not much answer him; but he 
 thought that her eyes expressed the old words, 
 
 " It's not in me to forgive ; I sometimes think it's 
 not in me to forget." 
 
 However, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, 
 that, even in the most tender and stable masculine 
 natures, at the supremest seasons of their lives, there 
 
30 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 is room for other thoughts and passions than such 
 as are connected with love. Even with the most 
 domestic and affectionate men, their emotions seem 
 to be kept in a cell distinct and away from their 
 actual lives. Philip had other thoughts and other 
 occupations than those connected with his wife during 
 all this time. 
 
 An uncle of his mother's, a Cumberland " states- 
 man," of whose existence he was barely conscious, 
 died about this time, leaving to his unknown great- 
 nephew four or five hundred pounds, which put him 
 at once in a different position with regard to his 
 business. Henceforward his ambition was roused, — 
 such humble ambition as befitted a shop-keeper in a 
 country town sixty or seventy years ago. To be re- 
 spected by the men around him had always been an 
 object with him, and was, perhaps, becoming more so 
 than ever now, as a sort of refuge from his deep, 
 sorrowful mortification in other directions. He was 
 greatly pleased at being made a sidesman ; and, in 
 preparation for the further honour of being church- 
 warden, he went regularly twice-a-day to church on 
 Sundays. There was enough religious feeling in 
 him to make him disguise the worldly reason for 
 such conduct from himself. He believed that he 
 went because he thought it right to attend public 
 
EVIL OMENS. 
 
 31 
 
 worship in the parish church whenever it was 
 offered up; but it may be questioned of him, as 
 of many others, how far he would have been as 
 regular in attendance in a place where he was not 
 known. With this, however, we have nothing to do. 
 The fact was that he went regularly to church, and 
 he wished his wife to accompany him to the pew, 
 newly painted, with his name on the door, where 
 he sate in full sight of the clergyman and congrega- 
 tion. 
 
 Sylvia had never been in the habit of such regular 
 church-going, and she felt it as a hardship, and 
 slipped out of the duty as often as ever she could. 
 In her unmarried days, she and her parents had gone 
 annually to the mother-church of the parish in which 
 Haytersbank was situated : on the Monday succeed- 
 ing the Sunday next after the Romish Saint's Day 
 to whom the church was dedicated, there was a great 
 feast or wake held, and, on the Sunday, all the 
 parishioners came to church from far and near. 
 Frequently, too, in the course of the year, Sylvia 
 would accompany one or other of her parents to 
 Kirby Moorside afternoon service, — when the hay 
 was got in, and the corn not ready for cutting, 
 or the cows were dry and there was no afternoon 
 milking. Many clergymen were languid in those 
 
32 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 days, and did not too curiously inquire into the 
 reasons which gave them such small congregations in 
 country parishes. 
 
 Now she was married, this weekly church-going 
 which Philip seemed to expect from her, became 
 a tie and a small hardship, which connected itself 
 with her life of respectability and prosperity. ee A 
 crust of bread and liberty " was much more accordant 
 to Sylvia's nature than plenty of creature comforts 
 and many restraints. Another wish of Philip's, 
 against which she said no word, but constantly 
 rebelled in thought and deed, was his desire that the 
 servant he had engaged during the time of her 
 illness to take charge of the baby, should always 
 carry it whenever it was taken out for a walk. 
 Sylvia often felt, now she was strong, as if she 
 would far rather have been without the responsibility 
 of having this nurse-maid, of whom she was, in 
 reality, rather afraid. The good side of it was 
 that it set her at liberty to attend to her mother 
 at times when she would have been otherwise 
 occupied with her baby; but Bell required very 
 little from any one: she was easily pleased, un- 
 exacting, and methodical even in her dotage; pre- 
 serving the quiet, undemonstrative habits of her 
 earlier life now that the faculty of reason, which had 
 
EVIL OMENS. 
 
 33 
 
 been at the basis of the formation of such habits, was 
 gone. She took great delight in watching the baby, 
 and was pleased to have it in her care for a short 
 time ; but she dozed so much that it prevented her 
 having any strong wish on the subject. 
 
 So Sylvia contrived to get her baby as much as 
 possible to herself, in spite of the nurse-maid; and 
 above all, she would carry it out, softly cradled in 
 her arms, warm pillowed on her breast, and bear it 
 to the freedom and solitude of the sea-shore on the 
 north side of the town, where the cliffs were not so 
 high, and there was a good space of sand and shingle 
 at all low tides. 
 
 Once here, she was as happy as she ever ex- 
 pected to be in this world. The fresh sea-breeze 
 restored something of the colour of former days to 
 her cheeks, the old buoyancy to her spirits ; here she 
 might talk her heart-full of loving nonsense to her 
 baby; here it was all her own; no father to share 
 in it, no nurse-maid to dispute the wisdom of any- 
 thing she did with it. She sang to it, she tossed it, 
 it crowed and it laughed back again, till both were 
 weary ; and then she would sit down on a broken 
 piece of rock, and fall to gazing on the advancing 
 waves catching the sunlight on their crests, advanc- 
 ing, receding, for ever and for ever, as they had done 
 
 vol. in. 42 
 
34 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 all her life long — as they did when she had walked 
 with them that once by the side of Kinraid ; those 
 cruel waves that, forgetful of the happy lovers' talk 
 by the side of their waters, had carried one away, and 
 drowned him deep till he was dead. Every time she 
 sate down to look at the sea, this process of thought 
 was gone through up to this point; the next step 
 would, she knew, bring her to the question she dared 
 not, must not ask. He was dead ; he must be dead ; 
 for was she not Philip's wife ? Then came up the 
 recollection of Philip's speech, never forgotten, only 
 buried out of sight : " What kind of a woman are 
 ye, to go on dreaming of another man, and you a 
 wedded wife ! " She used to shudder as if cold steel 
 had been plunged into her warm living body as she 
 remembered these words ; cruel words, harmlessly 
 provoked. They were too much associated with 
 physical pains to be dwelt upon ; only their memory 
 was always there. She paid for these happy rambles 
 with her baby by the depression which awaited her 
 on her re-entrance into the dark confined house that 
 was her home ; its very fulness of comfort was an 
 oppression. Then, when her husband saw her pale 
 and fatigued, he was annoyed, and sometimes up- 
 braided her for doing what was so unnecessary as to 
 load herself with her child. She knew full well it 
 
EVIL OMENS. 
 
 35 
 
 was not that that caused her weariness. By and by, 
 when he inquired and discovered that all these walks 
 were taken in one direction, out towards the sea, he 
 grew jealous of her love for the inanimate ocean. 
 Was it connected in her mind with the thought of 
 Kinraid ? Why did she so perseveringly, in wind or 
 cold, go out to the sea-shore ; the northern side, too, 
 where, if she went but far enough, she would come 
 upon the mouth of the Haytersbank gully, the point 
 at which she had last seen Kinraid ? Such fancies 
 haunted Philip's mind for hours after she had 
 acknowledged the direction of her walks. But he 
 never said a word that could distinctly tell her he 
 disliked her going to the sea, otherwise she would 
 have obeyed him in this, as in everything else ; for 
 absolute obedience to her husband seemed to be her 
 rule of life at this period — obedience to him who 
 would so gladly have obeyed her smallest wish had 
 she but expressed it ! She never knew that Philip 
 had any painful association with the particular point 
 on the sea-shore that she instinctively avoided, both 
 from a consciousness of wifely duty, and also be- 
 cause the sight of it brought up so much sharp 
 pain. 
 
 Philip used to wonder if the dream that preceded 
 her illness was the suggestive cause that drew her 
 
 42—2 
 
36 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 so often to the shore. Her illness consequent upon 
 that dream had filled his mind, so that for many- 
 months he himself had had no haunting vision of 
 Kinraid to disturb his slumbers. But now the old 
 dream of Kinraid's actual presence by Philip's bed- 
 side began to return with fearful vividness. Night 
 after night it recurred; each time with some new 
 touch of reality, and close approach ; till it was as 
 if the fate that overtakes all men, were then, even 
 then, knocking at his door. 
 
 In his business Philip prospered. Men praised 
 him because he did well to himself. He had the 
 perseverance, the capability for head-work and 
 calculation, the steadiness and general fore-thought 
 which might have made him a great merchant if he 
 had lived in a large city. Without any effort of his 
 own, almost, too, without Coulson's being aware of it, 
 Philip was now in the position of superior partner ; 
 the one to suggest and arrange, while Coulson only 
 carried out the plans that emanated from Philip. 
 The whole work of life was suited to the man ; he 
 did not aspire to any different position, only to the 
 full development of the capabilities of that which he 
 already held. He had originated several fresh 
 schemes with regard to the traffic of the shop ; and 
 his old masters, with all their love of tried ways, and 
 
EVIL OMENS. 
 
 37 
 
 distrust of everything new, had been candid enough 
 to confess that their successor's plans had resulted in 
 success. "Their successors." Philip was content 
 with having the power when the exercise of it was 
 required, and never named his own important share 
 in the new improvements. Possibly, if he had, 
 Coulson's vanity might have taken the alarm, and he 
 might not have been so acquiescent for the future. 
 As it was, he forgot his own subordinate share, and 
 always used the imperial " we," " we thought," " it 
 struck us," &c. 
 
38 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 RESCUED FROM THE WAVES. 
 
 Meanwhile Hester came and went as usual; in so quiet 
 and methodical a way, with so even and undisturbed 
 a temper, that she was almost forgotten when every- 
 thing went well in the shop or household. She was 
 a star, the brightness of which was only recognized in 
 times of darkness. She herself was almost surprised 
 at her own increasing regard for Sylvia. She had 
 not thought she should ever be able to love the 
 woman who had been such a laggard in acknow- 
 ledging Philip's merits ; and from all she had ever 
 heard of Sylvia before she came to know her, from 
 the angry words with which Sylvia had received her 
 when she had first gone to Haytersbank Farm, 
 Hester had intended to remain on friendly terms, but 
 to avoid intimacy. But her kindness to Bell Robson 
 had won both the mother's and daughter's hearts; 
 and in spite of herself, certainly against her own 
 mother's advice, she had become the familiar friend 
 and welcome guest of the household. 
 
RESCUED FROM THE WAVES. 39 
 
 Now the very change in Sylvia's whole manner 
 and ways, which grieved and vexed Philip, made his 
 wife the more attractive to Hester. Brought up 
 among Quakers, although not one herself, she ad- 
 mired and respected the staidness and outward 
 peacefulness common amongst the young women of 
 that sect. Sylvia, whom she had expected to find 
 volatile, talkative, vain, and wilful, was quiet and 
 still, as if she had been born a Friend : she seemed to 
 have no will of her own ; she served her mother and 
 €hild for love ; she obeyed her husband in all things, 
 and never appeared to pine after gaiety or pleasure. 
 And yet at times Hester thought, or rather a flash 
 came across her mind, as if all things were not as 
 right as they seemed. Philip looked older, more 
 care-worn ; nay, even Hester was obliged to allow 
 to herself that she had heard him speak to his wife in 
 sharp aggrieved tones. Innocent Hester ! she could 
 not understand how the very qualities she so admired 
 in Sylvia were just what were so foreign to her nature 
 that the husband, who had known her from a child, 
 felt what an unnatural restraint she was putting upon 
 herself, and would have hailed petulant words or 
 wilful actions with an unspeakable thankfulness for 
 relief. 
 
 One day — it was in the spring of 1798 — Hester 
 
40 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 was engaged to stay to tea with the Hepburns, in 
 order that after that early meal she might set to again 
 in helping Philip and Coulson to pack away the winter 
 cloths and flannels, for which there was no longer any 
 nse. The tea-time was half-past four ; about four 
 o'clock a heavy April shower came on, the hail patter- 
 ing against the window-panes so as to awaken Mrs. 
 Robson from her afternoon's nap. She came down 
 the corkscrew stairs, and found Phoebe in the parlour 
 arranging the tea-things. 
 
 Phoebe and Mrs. Robson were better friends than 
 Phoebe and her young mistress; and so they began 
 to talk a little together in a comfortable familiar way. 
 Once or twice Philip looked in, as if he would be 
 glad to see the tea-table in readiness; and then 
 Phoebe would put on a spurt ; of busy bustle, which 
 ceased almost as soon as his back was turned, so 
 eager was she to obtain Mrs. Robson's sympathy 
 in some little dispute that had occurred between 
 her and the nursemaid. The latter had misappro- 
 priated some hot water, prepared and required by 
 Phoebe, to the washing of the baby's clothes ; it was 
 a long story, and would have tired the patience of 
 any one in full possession of their senses ; but the 
 details were just within poor Bell's comprehension, 
 and she was listening with the greatest sympathy. 
 
RESCUED FROM THE WAVES. 41 
 
 Both the women were unaware of the lapse of time ; 
 but it was of consequence to Philip, as the extra 
 labour was not to be begun until after tea, and the 
 daylight hours were precious. 
 
 At a quarter to five Hester and he came in, and 
 then Phoebe began to hurry. Hester went up to 
 sit by Bell and talk to her. Philip spoke to Phoebe 
 in the familiar words of country-folk. Indeed, until 
 his marriage, Phoebe had always called him by his 
 Christian name, and had found it very difficult to 
 change it into <c master." 
 
 « Where's Sylvia? " said he. 
 
 " Gone out wi' t' babby," replied Phoebe. 
 
 " Why can't Nancy carry it out ? " asked Philip. 
 
 It was touching on the old grievance : he was tired, 
 and he spoke with sharp annoyance. Phoebe might 
 easily have told him the real state of the case ; 
 Nancy was busy at her washing, which would have 
 been reason enough. But the nursemaid had vexed 
 her, and she did not like Philip's sharpness, so she 
 only said, 
 
 " It's noan o' my business ; it's yo' t' look after 
 yo'r own wife and child; but yo'r but a lad 
 after a'." 
 
 This was not a conciliatory speech, and just put 
 the last stroke to Philip's fit of ill-temper. 
 
42 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " I'm not for my tea to-night," said he, to Hester, 
 when all was ready. " Sylvia's not here, and nothing 
 is nice, or as it should be. I'll go and set to on the 
 stock-taking. Don't yon hurry, Hester; stop and 
 chat a bit with the old lady." 
 
 "Nay, Philip," said Hester, "thou's sadly tired; 
 just take this cup o' tea ; Sylvia '11 be grieved if thou 
 has not something." 
 
 " Sylvia doesn't care whether I'm full or fasting," 
 replied he, impatiently putting aside the cup. "If 
 she did she'd ha' taken care to be in, and ha' seen to 
 things being as I like them." 
 
 Now in general Philip was the least particular of 
 men about meals ; and to do Sylvia justice, she was 
 scrupulously attentive to every household duty in 
 which old Phoebe would allow her to meddle, and 
 always careful to see after her husband's comforts. 
 But Philip was too vexed at her absence to perceive 
 the injustice of what he was saying, nor was he 
 aware how Bell Robson had been attending to what 
 he said. But she was sadly discomfited by it, under- 
 standing just enough of the grievance in hand to 
 think that her daughter was neglectful of those duties 
 which she herself had always regarded as paramount 
 to all others; nor could Hester convince her that 
 Philip had not meant what he said; neither could 
 
RESCUED FROM THE WAVES. 43 
 
 she turn the poor old woman's thoughts from the 
 words which had caused her distress. 
 
 Presently Sylvia came in, bright and cheerful 
 although breathless with hurry. 
 
 " Oh," said she, taking off her wet shawl, ee we've 
 had to shelter from such a storm of rain, baby and 
 me — but see ! she's none the worse for it, as bonny as 
 ever, bless her." 
 
 Hester began some speech of admiration for the 
 child in order to prevent Bell from delivering the 
 lecture she felt sure was coming down on the unsus- 
 pecting Sylvia ; but all in vain. 
 
 " Philip has been complaining of thee, Sylvia," 
 said Bell, in the way in which she had spoken to her 
 daughter when she was a little child; grave and 
 severe in tone and look, more than in words. ee I 
 forget justly what about, but he spoke on thy neg- 
 lecting him continual. *It's not right, my lass, it's 
 not right; a woman should — but my head's very 
 tired, and all I can think on to say is, it's not right." 
 
 ee Philip been complaining of me, and to mother ! " 
 said Sylvia, ready to burst into tears, so grieved and 
 angry was she. 
 
 "No!" said Hester, "thy mother has taken it a 
 little too strong ; he were vexed like at his tea not 
 being ready." 
 
44 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 Sylvia said no more, but the bright colour faded 
 from her cheek, and the contraction of care returned 
 to her brow. She occupied herself with taking off 
 her baby's walking things. Hester lingered, anxious 
 to soothe and make peace ; she was looking sorrowfully 
 at Sylvia, when she saw tears dropping on the baby's 
 cloak, and then it seemed as if she must speak a word 
 of comfort before going to the shop-work, where she 
 knew she was expected by both Philip and Coulson. 
 She poured out a cup of tea, and coming close up to 
 Sylvia, and kneeling down by her, she whispered, — 
 
 "Just take him this into the ware-room; it'll 
 put all to rights if thou'll take it to him wi' thy 
 own hands." 
 
 Sylvia looked up, and Hester then more fully saw 
 how she had been crying. She whispered in reply, 
 for fear of disturbing her mother, — 
 
 " I don't mind anything but his speaking ill on me 
 to mother. I know I'm for iver trying and trying to 
 be a good wife to him, an' it's very dull work ; harder 
 than yo' think on, Hester, — an' I would ha' been 
 home for tea to-night only I was afeard of baby 
 getting wet wi' t' storm o' hail as we had down 
 on t' shore ; and we sheltered under a rock. It's a 
 weary coming home to this dark place, and to find 
 my own mother set against me." 
 
EESCUED FKOM THE WAVES. 
 
 45 
 
 e( Take him his tea, like a good lassie. I'll answer 
 for it he'll be all right. A man takes it hardly 
 when he comes in tired, a-thinking his wife will be 
 there to cheer him up a bit, to find her off, and never 
 know nought of t' reason why." 
 
 " I'm glad enough I've getten a baby," said Sylvia, 
 " but for ought else I wish I had niver been married, 
 I do!" 
 
 " Hush thee, lass ! " said Hester, rising up indig- 
 nant ; "now that is a sin. Eh ! if thou only knew 
 the lot o' some folk. But let's talk no more on that, 
 that cannot be helped ; go take him his tea, for it's a 
 sad thing to think on him fasting all this time." 
 
 Hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her 
 change of position; and the word fasting caught 
 Mrs. Robson's ear, as she sate at her knitting by the 
 chimney-corner. 
 
 "Fasting? he said thou didn't care if he were 
 full or fasting. Lassie ! it's not right in thee, I say ; 
 go take him his tea at once." 
 
 Sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had 
 been suckling, to Nancy, who having done her wash- 
 ing, had come for her charge, to put it to bed. Sylvia 
 kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad, passion- 
 ate tenderness as she did so. Then she took the cup 
 of tea ; but she said, rather defiantly, to Hester,- — 
 
46 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " I'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, 
 and it'll ease her mind." 
 
 Then louder to her mother, she added, — 
 
 (( Mother, I'll take him his tea, though I couldn't 
 help the being out." 
 
 If the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which 
 she was going to do it was the reverse. Hester 
 followed her slowly into the ware-room, with inten- 
 tional delay, thinking that her presence might be an 
 obstacle to their mutally understanding one another. 
 Sylvia held the cup and plate of bread and butter 
 out to Philip, but avoided meeting his eye, and said 
 not a word of explanation or regret, or self-justification. 
 If she had spoken, though ever so crossly, Philip 
 would have been relieved, and would have preferred 
 it to her silence. He wanted to provoke her to 
 speech, but did not know how to begin. 
 
 "Thou's been out again wandering on that sea- 
 shore ! " said he. She did not answer him. " I 
 cannot think what's always taking thee there, when 
 one would ha' thought a walk up to Esdale would be 
 far more sheltered both for thee and baby in such 
 weather as this. Thou'll be having that baby ill 
 some of these days." 
 
 At this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved 
 as though she were going to say something. Oh, how 
 
RESCUED EROM THE WAVES. 
 
 47 
 
 he wished she would, that they might come to a 
 wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again, and a 
 tender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence 
 for all his hasty words, or unreasonable vexation. 
 But she had come resolved not to speak for fear 
 of showing too much passion, too much emotion. 
 Only as she was going away she turned and said, 
 
 Cf Philip, mother hasn't many more years to live ; 
 dunnot grieve her, and set her against me by finding 
 fault wi' me afore her. Our being wed were a great 
 mistake ; but before t' poor old widow woman let us 
 make as if we were happy." 
 
 " Sylvia ! Sylvia ! " he called after her. She must 
 have heard, but she did not turn. He went after her 
 and seized her by the arm, rather roughly ; she had 
 stung him to the heart with her calm words, which 
 seemed to reveal a long-formed conviction. 
 
 €e Sylvia ! " said he, almost fiercely, ee what do you 
 mean by what yo've said ? Speak ! I will have an 
 answer." 
 
 He almost shook her : she was half frightened by 
 his vehemence of behaviour, which she took for pure 
 anger, while it was the outburst of agonized and un- 
 requited love. 
 
 " Let me go ! Oh, Philip, yo' hurt me ! " 
 
 Just at this moment Hester came up ; Philip was 
 
48 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 ashamed of his passionate ways in her serene presence, 
 and loosened his grasp of his wife, and she ran away; 
 ran into her mother's empty room, as to a solitary 
 place, and there burst into that sobbing, miserable 
 erying which we instinctively know is too surely 
 lessening the length of our days on earth to be 
 indulged in often. 
 
 When she had exhausted that first burst and lay 
 weak and quiet for a time, she listened in dreading 
 expectation of the sound of his footstep coming in 
 search of her to make friends. But he w T as detained 
 below on business, and never came. Instead, her 
 mother came clambering up the stairs ; she was now 
 in the habit of going to bed between seven and eight, 
 and to-night she was retiring at even an earlier 
 hour. 
 
 Sylvia sprang up and drew down the window- 
 blind, and made her face and manner as composed as 
 possible in order to soothe and comfort her mother's 
 last waking hours. She helped her to bed with 
 gentle patience; the restraint imposed upon her by 
 her tender filial love was good for her, though all the 
 time she was longing to be alone to have another wild 
 outburst. When her mother was going off to sleep, 
 Sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. 
 Then she gazed out at the evening sky, high above 
 
RESCUED FROM THE WAVES. 
 
 49 
 
 the tiled roofs of the opposite houses, and the longing 
 to be out under the peaceful heavens took possession 
 of her once more. 
 
 " It's my only comfort," said she to herself ; " and 
 there's no earthly harm in it. I would ha' been at 
 home to his tea, if I could; but when he doesn't 
 want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby is 
 either in my arms or asleep; why, I'll go and cry my 
 fill out under yon great quiet sky. I cannot stay in t' 
 house to be choked up wi' my tears, nor yet to have him 
 coming about me either for scolding or peace-making." 
 " So she put on her things and went out again ; this 
 time along the High Street and up the long flights of 
 steps towards the parish church, and there she stood 
 and thought that here she had first met Kinraid at 
 Darley's burying, and she tried to recall the very 
 look of all the sad, earnest faces round the open 
 grave — the whole scene, in fact ; and let herself give 
 way to the miserable regrets she had so often tried to 
 control. Then she walked on, crying bitterly, 
 almost unawares to herself; on through the high 
 bleak fields at the summit of the cliffs ; fields 
 bounded by loose stone fences, and far from all sight 
 of the habitation of man. But, below, the sea rose 
 and raged ; it was high water at the highest tide, and 
 the wind blew gustily from the land, vainly com- 
 
 VOL. in. 43 
 
50 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 bating the great waves that came invincibly up with 
 a roar and an impotent furious dash against the base 
 of the cliffs below. 
 
 Sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and 
 rebound of many waters, like the shock of mighty 
 guns, whenever the other sound of the blustering 
 gusty wind was lulled for an instant. She was more 
 quieted by this tempest of the elements than she 
 would have been had all nature seemed as still as she 
 had imagined it to be while she was yet in-doors and 
 only saw a part of the serene sky. 
 
 She fixed on a certain point, in her own mind, 
 which she would reach, and then turn back again. 
 It was where the outline of the land curved inwards, 
 dipping into a little bay. Here the field-path she 
 had hitherto followed descended somewhat abruptly 
 to a cluster of fishermen's cottages, hardly large 
 enough to be called a village ; and then the narrow 
 road-way wound up the rising ground till it again 
 reached the summit of the cliffs that stretched along 
 the coast for many and many a mile. 
 
 Sylvia said to herself that she would turn home- 
 wards when she came within sight of this cove, — 
 Headlington Cove, they called it. All the way along 
 she had met no one since she had left the town, but 
 just as she had got over the last stile, or ladder of 
 
KESCUED EROM THE WAVES. 
 
 51 
 
 stepping-stones, into the field from which the path 
 descended, she came upon a number of people, quite 
 a crowd, in fact; men moving forward in a steady 
 line, hauling at a rope, a chain, or something of that 
 kind; boys, children, and women holding babies in 
 their arms, as if all were fain to come out, and partake 
 in some general interest. 
 
 They kept within a certain distance from the edge 
 of the cliff, and Sylvia, advancing a little, now saw 
 the reason why. The great cable the men held was 
 attached to some part of a smack, which could now be 
 seen by her in the waters below, half dismantled, and 
 all but a wreck, yet with her deck covered with 
 living men, as far as the waning light would allow 
 her to see. The vessel strained to get free of the 
 strong guiding cable ; the tide was turning, the wind 
 was blowing off shore, and Sylvia knew without 
 being told, that, almost parallel to this was a line 
 of sunken rocks that had been fatal to many a 
 ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner 
 channel instead of keeping out to sea for miles, and 
 then steering in straight for Monkshaven port. And 
 the ships that had been thus lost had been in good 
 plight and order compared to this vessel, which 
 seemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail. 
 
 By this time, the crowd — the fishermen from the 
 
 43—2 
 
52 
 
 Sylvia's lovers. 
 
 hamlet down below, with their wives and children — 
 all had come but the bedridden, — had reached the 
 place where Sylvia stood. The women, in a state of 
 wild excitement, rushed on, encouraging their hus- 
 bands and sons by words, even while they hindered 
 them by actions; and, from time to time, one of them 
 would run to the edge of the cliff and shout out some 
 brave words of hope in her shrill voice to the crew 
 on the deck below. Whether these latter heard it 
 or not, no one could tell ; but it seemed as if all 
 human voice must be lost in the tempestuous stun 
 and tumult of wind and wave. It was generally 
 a woman with a child in her arms who so employed 
 herself. As the strain upon the cable became greater, 
 and the ground on which they strove more uneven, 
 every hand was needed to hold and push, and all 
 those women who were unencumbered held by the dear 
 rope on which so many lives were depending. On 
 they came, a long line of human beings, black against 
 the ruddy sunset sky. As they came near Sylvia, a 
 woman cried out, 
 
 " Dunnot stand idle, lass, but hold on wi' us ; there's 
 many a bonny life at stake, and many a mother's 
 heart a-hanging on this bit o' hemp. Take hold, 
 lass, and give a firm grip, and God remember thee 
 i' thy need." 
 
EES CUED EROM THE WAVES. 53 
 
 Sylvia needed no second word ; a place was made 
 for her, and in an instant more the rope was pulling 
 against her hands till it seemed as though she was 
 holding fire in her bare palms. Never a one of 
 them thought of letting go for an instant, though 
 when all was over many of their hands were raw 
 and bleeding. Some strong, experienced fishermen 
 passed a word along the line from time to time, 
 giving directions as to how it should be held 
 according to varying occasions; but few among the 
 rest had breath or strength enough to speak. The 
 women and children that accompanied them ran on 
 before, breaking down the loose stone fences, so as 
 to obviate delay or hindrance; they talked con- 
 tinually, exhorting, encouraging, explaining. From 
 their many words and fragmentary sentences, Sylvia 
 learnt that the vessel was supposed to be a Newcastle 
 smack sailing from London, that had taken the 
 dangerous inner channel to save time, and had been 
 caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to 
 withstand ; and that if by some daring contrivance 
 of the fishermen who had first seen her the cable 
 had not been got ashore, she would have been cast 
 upon the rocks before this, and " all on board 
 perished." 
 
 " It were daylight then," quoth one woman ; e{ a 
 
54 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 could see their faces, they were so near. They were 
 as pale as dead men, and one was praying down on 
 his knees. There was a king's officer on board, for I 
 saw the gold about him." 
 
 " He'd maybe come from these hom'ard parts, and 
 be coming to see his own folk ; else it's no common 
 for king's officers to sail in aught but king's ships." 
 
 "Eh! but it's gettin' dark! See there's tf 
 lights in t' houses in t' New Town! T' grass is 
 crisping wi' t' white frost under our feet. It'll be 
 a hard tug round t' point, and then she'll be gettin' 
 into still waters." 
 
 One more great push and mighty strain, and the 
 danger was past; the vessel — or what remained of 
 her — was in the harbour, among the lights and 
 cheerful sounds of safety. The fishermen sprang 
 down the cliff to the quay side, anxious to see the 
 men whose lives they had saved ; the women, weary 
 and over-excited, began to cry. Not Sylvia, however ; 
 her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the 
 day : her principal feeling was of gladness and high 
 rejoicing that they were saved who had been so near 
 to death not half an hour before. 
 
 She would have liked to have seen the men, and 
 shaken hands with them all round. But instead she 
 must go home, and well would it be with her if she 
 
EESCUED FROM THE WAVES. 
 
 55 
 
 was in time for her husband's supper, and escaped 
 any notice of her absence. So she separated herself 
 from the groups of women who sate on the grass 
 in the churchyard, awaiting the return of such of their 
 husbands as could resist the fascinations of the 
 Monkshaven public-houses. As Sylvia went down 
 the church steps, she came upon one of the fishermen 
 who had helped to tow the vessel into port. 
 
 u There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, 
 and a navy-lieutenant as had corned as passenger. 
 It were a good job as we could manage her. Good- 
 night to thee, thou'll sleep all the sounder for having 
 lent a hand." 
 
 The street air felt hot and close after the sharp 
 keen atmosphere of the heights above; the decent 
 shops and houses had all their shutters put up, and 
 were preparing for their early bed-time. Already 
 lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, 
 and Sylvia scarcely met any one. 
 
 She went round up the passage from the quay 
 side, and in by the private door. All was still ; the 
 basins of bread and milk that she and her husband 
 * were in the habit of having for supper stood in 
 the fender before the fire, each with a plate upon 
 them. Nanny had gone to bed, Phoebe dozed in the 
 kitchen ; Philip was still in the ware-room, arranging 
 
56 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for 
 Hester had gone home to her mother. 
 
 Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip, 
 after the manner in which they had parted. All the 
 despondency of her life became present to her again 
 as she sate down within her home. She had for- 
 gotten it in her interest and excitement, but now 
 it came back again. 
 
 Still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. 
 She took her basin up, and was eating her supper 
 when she heard a cry of her baby upstairs, and 
 ran away to attend to it. When it had been fed 
 and hushed away to sleep, she went in to see her 
 mother, attracted by some unusual noise in her 
 room. 
 
 She found Mrs. Robson awake, and restless, and 
 ailing ; dwelling much on what Philip had said in 
 his anger against Sylvia. It was really necessary 
 for her daughter to remain with her; so Sylvia 
 stole out, and went quickly downstairs to Philip — 
 now sitting tired and worn out, and eating his supper 
 with little or no appetite — and told him she meant 
 to pass the night with her mother. 
 
 His answer of acquiescence was so short and care- 
 less, or so it seemed to her, that she did not tell him 
 any more of what she had done or seen that evening, 
 
EESCUED EKOM THE WAVES. 57 
 
 or even dwell upon any details of her mother's indis- 
 position. 
 
 As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down 
 his half-finished basin of bread and milk, and sate 
 long, his face hidden in his folded arms. The wick 
 of the candle grew long and black, and fell, and 
 sputtered, and guttered ; he sate on, unheeding either 
 it or the pale grey fire that was dying out — dead 
 at last. 
 
58 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN APPARITION. 
 
 Mrs. Robson was very poorly all night long. Un- 
 easy thoughts seemed to haunt and perplex her brain, 
 and she neither slept nor woke, but was restless and 
 uneasy in her talk and movements. 
 
 Sylvia lay down by her, but got so little sleep, that 
 at length she preferred sitting in the easy chair by 
 the bedside. Here she dropped off to slumber in 
 spite of herself; the scene of the evening before 
 seemed to be repeated ; the cries of the many people, 
 heavy roar and dash of the threatening waves, were 
 repeated in her ears ; and something was said to her 
 through all the conflicting noises, — what .it was she 
 could not catch, though she strained to hear the 
 hoarse murmur that, in her dream, she believed to 
 convey a meaning of the utmost importance to her. 
 
 This dream, that mysterious, only half intelligible 
 sound, recurred whenever she dozed, and her inability 
 to hear the words uttered distressed her so much, 
 
AN APPARITION. 
 
 59 
 
 that at length she sate bolt upright, resolved to sleep 
 no more. Her mother was talking in a half-conscious 
 way ; Philip's speech of the evening before was evi- 
 dently running in her mind. 
 
 " Sylvie, if thou're not a good wife to him, it'll just 
 break my heart outright. A woman should obey her 
 husband, and not go her own gait. I never leave 
 the house wi'out telling father, and getting his 
 leave." 
 
 And then she began to cry pitifully, and to say 
 unconnected things, till Sylvia, to soothe her, took 
 her hand, and promised never to leave the house 
 without asking her husband's permission, though in 
 making this promise, she felt as if she were sacrificing 
 her last pleasure to her mother's wish ; for she knew 
 well enough that Philip would always raise objec- 
 tions to the rambles which reminded her of her old 
 free open-air life. 
 
 But to comfort and cherish her mother she would 
 have done anything ; yet this very morning that was 
 dawning, she must go and ask his permission for 
 a simple errand, or break her word. 
 
 She knew from experience that nothing quieted 
 her mother so well as balm-tea ; it might be that the 
 herb really possessed some sedative power ; it might 
 be only early faith, and often repeated experience, but 
 
60 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 it had always had a tranquillizing effect ; and more 
 than once, during the restless hours of the night, 
 Mrs. Robson had asked for it ; but Sylvia's stock of 
 last year's dead leaves was exhausted. Still she 
 knew where a plant of balm grew in the sheltered 
 corner of Haytersbank Farm garden ; she knew that 
 the tenants who had succeeded them in the occupa- 
 tion of the farm had had to leave it in consequence 
 of a death, and that the place was unoccupied ; and 
 in the darkness she had planned that if she could 
 leave her mother after the dawn came, and she had 
 attended to her baby, she would walk quickly to the 
 old garden and gather the tender sprigs which she 
 was sure to find there. 
 
 Now she must go and ask Philip ; and till she held 
 her baby to her breast, she bitterly wished that she 
 were free from the duties and chains of matrimony. 
 But the touch of its waxen fingers, the hold of its 
 little mouth, made her relax into docility and gentle- 
 ness. She gave it back to Nancy to be dressed, and 
 softly opened the door of Philip's bed-room. 
 
 " Philip ! " said she, gently. " Philip ! " 
 
 He started up from dreams of her ; of her, angry. 
 He saw her there, rather pale with her night's watch 
 and anxiety, but looking meek, and a little beseeching. 
 
 " Mother has had such a bad night ! she fancied 
 
AN APPARITION. 
 
 61 
 
 once as some balm-tea would do her good — it allays 
 used to ; but my dried balm is all gone, and I thought 
 there'd be sure to be some in t' old garden at 
 Haytersbank. Father planted a bush just for 
 mother , where it allays came up early, nigh t' old 
 elder-tree ; and if yo'd not mind, I could run there 
 while she sleeps, and be back again in an hour, and 
 it's not seven now." 
 
 ee Thou's not wear thyself out with running, 
 Sylvie," said Philip, eagerly ; " I'll get up and go 
 myself, or perhaps," continued he, catching the shadow 
 that was coming over her face, "thou'd rather go 
 thyself: it's only that I'm so afraid of thy tiring 
 thyself." 
 
 ee It'll not tire me," said Sylvia. " Afore I was 
 married, I was out often far farther than that, afield 
 to fetch up t' kine, before my breakfast." 
 
 "Well, go if thou will," said Philip. "But get 
 somewhat to eat first, and don't hurry; there's no 
 need for that." 
 
 She had got her hat and shawl, and was off before 
 he had finished his last words. 
 
 The long High Street was almost empty of people 
 at that early hour ; one side was entirely covered by 
 the cool morning shadow which lay on the pavement, 
 and crept up the opposite houses till only the topmost 
 
62 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 story caught the rosy sunlight. Up the hill -road, 
 through the gap in the stone wall, across the dewy 
 fields, Sylvia went by the very shortest path she 
 knew. 
 
 She had only once been at Haytersbank since her 
 wedding-day. On that occasion the place had seemed 
 strangely and dissonantly changed by the numerous 
 children who were diverting themselves before the 
 open door, and whose playthings and clothes strewed 
 the house-place, and made it one busy scene of con- 
 fusion and untidiness, more like the Corneys' kitchen 
 in former times, than her mother's orderly and quiet 
 abode. Those little children were fatherless now; 
 and the house was shut up, awaiting the entry of 
 some new tenant. There were no shutters to shut ; 
 the long low window was blinking in the rays of the 
 morning sun; the house and cow-house doors were 
 closed, and no poultry wandered about the field in 
 search of stray grains of corn, or early worms. It 
 was a strange and unfamiliar silence, and struck 
 solemnly on Sylvia's mind. Only a thrush in the old 
 orchard down in the hollow, out of sight, whistled 
 and gurgled with continual shrill melody. 
 
 Sylvia went slowly past the house and down the 
 path leading to the wild, deserted bit of garden. She 
 saw that the last tenants had had a pump sunk for 
 
AN APPARITION. 
 
 63 
 
 them, and resented the innovation, as though the well 
 she was passing could feel the insult. Over it grew 
 two hawthorn trees ; on the bent trunk of one of them 
 she used to sit, long ago : the charm of the position 
 being enhanced by the possible danger of falling into 
 the well and being drowned. The rusty unused 
 chain was wound round the windlass ; the bucket was 
 falling to pieces from dryness. A lean cat came from 
 some outhouse, and mewed pitifully with hunger; 
 accompanying Sylvia to the garden, as if glad of some 
 human companionship, yet refusing to allow itself to be 
 touched. Primroses grew in the sheltered places, just 
 as they formerly did; and made the uncultivated 
 ground seem less deserted than the garden, where the 
 last year's weeds were rotting away, and cumbering 
 the ground. 
 
 Sylvia forced her way through the berry bushes to 
 the herb-plot, and plucked the tender leaves she had 
 come to seek ; sighing a little all the time. Then she 
 retraced her steps ; paused softly before the house- 
 door, and entered the porch and kissed the senseless 
 wood. 
 
 She tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her 
 arms, meaning to carry it home and befriend it ; but 
 it was scared by her endeavour and ran back to its 
 home in the outhouse, making a green path across the 
 
64 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 white dew of the meadow. Then Sylvia began to 
 hasten home, thinking, and remembering — at the style 
 that led into the road she was brought short up. 
 
 Some one stood in the lane just on the other side of 
 the gap ; his back was to the morning sun ; all she 
 saw at first was the uniform of a naval officer, so 
 well known in Monkshaven in those days. 
 
 Sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, 
 although her clothes almost brushed his, as he stood 
 there still. She had not gone a yard — no, not half a 
 yard — when her heart leaped up and fell again dead 
 within her, as if she had been shot. 
 
 " Sylvia ! " he said, in a voice tremulous with joy 
 and passionate love. " Sylvia ! " 
 
 She looked round ; he had turned a little, so that 
 the light fell straight on his face. It was bronzed, 
 and the lines were strengthened; but it was the same 
 face she had last seen in Haytersbank Gully three long 
 years ago and had never thought to see in life again. 
 
 He was close to her and held out his fond arms ; 
 she went fluttering towards their embrace, as if drawn 
 by the old fascination ; but when she felt them close 
 round her, she started away, and cried out with a 
 great pitiful shriek, and put her hands up to her fore- 
 head as if trying to clear away some bewildering 
 mist 
 
AN APPARITION. 
 
 65 
 
 Then she looked at him once more, a terrible story 
 in her eyes, if he could but have read it. 
 
 Twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice 
 the words were overwhelmed by the surges of her 
 misery, which bore them back into the depths of her 
 heart. 
 
 He thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, 
 and he attemped to soothe her with soft murmurs 
 of love, and to woo her to his outstretched hungry 
 arms once more. But when she saw this motion of 
 his, she made a gesture as though pushing him away; 
 and with an inarticulate moan of agony she put her 
 hands to her head once more, and turning away began 
 to run blindly towards the town for protection. 
 
 For a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at 
 her behaviour ; and then he thought it accounted for 
 by the shock of his accost, and that she needed time 
 to understand the unexpected joy. So he followed 
 her swiftly, ever keeping her in view T , but not trying 
 to overtake her too speedily. 
 
 ec I have frightened my poor love," he kept think- 
 ing. And by this thought he tried to repress his 
 impatience and check the speed he longed to use; yet 
 he was always so near behind that her quickened 
 sense heard his well known footsteps following, and a 
 mad notion flashed across her brain that she would 
 
 vol. in. 44 
 
66 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 go to the wide full river, and end the hopeless misery 
 she felt enshrouding her. There was a sure hiding 
 place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe 
 beneath the rushing waters borne landwards by the 
 morning tide. 
 
 No one can tell what changed her course ; perhaps 
 the thought of her sucking child; perhaps her mother; 
 perhaps an angel of God ; no one on earth knows, but 
 as she ran along the quay side she all at once turned 
 up an entry, and through an open door. 
 
 He, following all the time, came into a quiet, dark 
 parlour, with a cloth and tea things on the table 
 ready for breakfast; the change from the bright 
 sunny air out of doors to the deep shadow of this 
 room made him think for the first moment that she 
 had passed on, and that no one was there, and he stood 
 for an instant baffled, and hearing no sound but the 
 beating of his own heart; but an irrepressible sobbing 
 gasp made him look round, and there he saw her 
 cowered behind the door, her face covered tight up^ 
 and sharp shudders going through her whole frame. 
 
 cc My love, my darling ! " said he, going up to her y 
 and trying to raise her, and to loosen her hands 
 away from her face. " I have been too sudden for 
 thee : it was thoughtless in me ; but I have so looked 
 forward to this time, and seeing thee come along the 
 
AN APPAKITION. 
 
 67 
 
 field, and go past me ; but I should ha' been more 
 tender and careful of thee. Nay! let me have 
 another look of thy sweet face." 
 
 All this he whispered in the old tones of 
 manoeuvring love, in that voice she had yearned and 
 hungered to hear in life, and had not heard, for all 
 her longing, save in her dreams. 
 
 She tried to crouch more and more into the corner, 
 into the hidden shadow — to sink into the ground out 
 of sight. 
 
 Once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her 
 face, to let him hear her speak. 
 But she only moaned. 
 
 (e Sylvia ! " said he, thinking he could change his 
 tactics, and pique her into speaking, that he would 
 make a pretence of suspicion and offence. 
 
 " Sylvia ! one would think you were not glad to 
 see me back again at length. I only came in late 
 last night, and my first thought on wakening was of 
 you ; it has been ever since I left you." 
 
 Sylvia took her hands away from her face ; it was 
 grey as the face of death ; her awful eyes were 
 passionless in her despair. 
 
 "Where have yo' been?" she asked, in slow, 
 hoarse tones, as if her voice were half strangled 
 within her. 
 
 44—2 
 
68 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEBS. 
 
 " Been ! " said he, a red light coming into his eyes, 
 as he bent his looks upon her; now, indeed, a 
 true and not an assumed suspicion entering his 
 mind. 
 
 " Been ! " he repeated ; then, coming a step nearer 
 to her, and taking her hand, not tenderly this time, 
 but with a resolution to be satisfied. 
 
 " Did not your cousin — Hepburn, I mean — did not 
 he tell you?— -he saw the press-gang seize me, — I 
 gave him a message to you — I bade you keep true to 
 me as I would be to you." 
 
 Between every clause of this speech he paused and 
 gasped for her answer; but none came. Her eyes 
 dilated and held his steady gaze prisoner as with 
 .a magical charm — neither could look away from the 
 other's wild, searching gaze. When he had ended, 
 -she was silent for a moment, then she cried out, 
 shrill and fierce, 
 
 " Philip ! " No answer. 
 
 Wilder and shriller still, " Philip ! " she cried. 
 
 He was in the distant ware-room completing the 
 last night's work before the regular shop hours 
 began ; before breakfast, also, that his wife might not 
 find him waiting and impatient. 
 
 He heard her cry ; it cut through doors, and still 
 air, and great bales of woollen stuff ; he thought that 
 
AN APPARITION. 
 
 69 
 
 she had hurt herself, that her mother was worse, that 
 her baby was ill, and he hastened to the spot whence 
 the cry proceeded. 
 
 On opening the door that separated the shop from 
 the sitting-room, he saw the back of a naval officer, 
 and his wife on the ground, huddled up in a heap ; 
 when she perceived him come in, she dragged herself 
 up by means of a chair, groping like a blind person, 
 and came and stood facing him. 
 
 The officer turned fiercely round, and would have 
 come towards Philip, who was so bewildered by the 
 scene that even yet he did not understand who the 
 stranger was, did not perceive for an instant that he 
 saw the realization of his greatest dread. 
 
 But Sylvia laid her hand on Kinraid's arm, and 
 assumed to herself the right of speech. Philip did not 
 know her voice, it was so changed. 
 
 " Philip," she said, " this is Kinraid come back 
 again to wed me. He is alive ; he has niver been 
 dead, only taken by t' press-gang. And he says 
 yo' saw it, and knew it all t' time. Speak, was it 
 so?" 
 
 Philip knew not what to say, whither to turn, 
 under what refuge of words or acts to shelter. 
 
 Sylvia's influence was keeping Kinraid silent, but 
 he was rapidly passing beyond it. 
 
70 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 c( Speak ! " lie cried, loosening himself from 
 Sylvia's light grasp, and coming towards Philip, with 
 a threatening gesture. " Did I not bid you tell her 
 how it was ? did I not bid you say how I would be 
 faithful to her, and she was to be faithful to me ? Oh ! 
 you damned scoundrel! have you kept it from her 
 all that time, and let her think me dead, or false ? 
 Take that!" 
 
 His closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung 
 his head with bitterest shame and miserable self- 
 reproach ; but Sylvia came swift between the blow 
 and its victim. 
 
 "Charley, thou shan't strike him," she said. 
 " He is a damned scoundrel " (this was said in the 
 hardest, quietest tone), " but he is my husband." 
 
 (( Oh ! thou false heart ! " exclaimed Kinraid, 
 turning sharp on her. u If ever I trusted woman, I 
 trusted you, Sylvia Robson." 
 
 He made as though throwing her from him, with a 
 gesture of contempt that stung her to life. 
 
 ee Oh, Charley ! " she cried, springing to him, 
 " dunnot cut me to the quick ; have pity on me, 
 though he had none. I did so love thee ; it was my 
 very heart-strings as gave way when they told me 
 thou was drowned — father, and the Corneys, and all, 
 iverybody. Thy hat and the bit of ribbon I gave 
 
AN APPAKITTON. 71 
 
 thee were found drenched and dripping wi' sea- 
 water; and I went mourning for thee all the day 
 long — dunnot turn away from me ; only hearken 
 this once, and then kill me dead, and I'll bless you, — 
 and have niver been mysel' since; niver ceased to 
 feel the sun grow dark and the air chill and dreary 
 when I thought on the time when thou was alive. 
 I did, my Charley, my own love ! And I thought that 
 thou was dead for iver, and I wished I were lying beside 
 thee. Oh, Charley ! Philip, there where he stands, 
 could tell you this was true. Philip, wasn't it so ? " 
 
 <e Would God I were dead ! " moaned forth the 
 unhappy, guilty man. But she had turned to Kin- 
 raid, and was speaking again to him, and neither 
 of them heard or heeded him — they were drawing 
 closer and closer together — she, with her cheeks and 
 eyes aflame, talking eagerly. 
 
 " And father was taken up, and all for setting some 
 free as t' press-gang had taken by a foul trick ; and 
 he were put in York prison, and tried, and hung ! — 
 hung ! Charley ! — good kind father was hung on a 
 gallows ; and mother lost her sense and grew silly 
 in grief, and we were like to be turned out on t' 
 wide world, and poor mother dateless — and I thought 
 yo' were dead — oh ! I thought yo' were dead, I did — 
 oh, Charley, Charky ! " 
 
72 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 By this time they were in each other's arms, she 
 with her head on his shoulder, crying as if her heart 
 would break. 
 
 Philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull 
 her away ; but Charley held her tight, mutely defying 
 Philip. Unconsciously, she was Philip's protection, in 
 that hour of danger, from a blow which might have 
 been his death if strong will could have aided it 
 to kill. 
 
 " Sylvia ! " said he, grasping her tight. " Listen 
 to me. He did not love you as I did. He had 
 loved other women. I, you — you alone. He had 
 loved other girls before you, and had left off loving 
 them. I — I wish God would free my heart from 
 the pang ; but it will go on till I die, whether you 
 love me or not. And then — where was I? Oh! 
 that very night that he was taken, I was a-thinking 
 ' on you and on him ; and I might ha' given you his 
 message, but I heard those speaking of him who 
 knew him well ; they talked of his false fickle ways. 
 How was I to know he would keep true to thee? 
 It might be a sin in me, I cannot say; my heart 
 and my sense are gone dead within me. I know 
 this, I have loved you as no man but me ever loved 
 before. Have some pity and forgiveness on me, if it's 
 only because I have been so tormented with my love." 
 
AN APPAEITION. 
 
 73 
 
 He looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness ; 
 it faded away into despair as she made no sign of 
 having even heard his words. He let go his hold 
 of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side. 
 
 " I may die/' he said, <f for my life is ended ! " 
 
 " Sylvia ! " spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent, 
 " your marriage is no marriage. You were tricked 
 into it. You are my wife, not his. I am your 
 husband ; we plighted each other our troth. See ! 
 here is my half of the sixpence." 
 
 He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black 
 ribbon round his neck. 
 
 " When they stripped me and searched me in the 
 French prison, I managed to keep this. No lies can 
 break the oath we swore to each other. I can get 
 your pretence of a marriage set aside. I am in 
 favour with my admiral, and he will do a deal for 
 me, and will back me out. Come with me ; your 
 marriage shall be set aside, and we'll be married 
 again, all square and above-board. Come away. 
 Leave that damned fellow to repent of the trick he 
 played an honest sailor ; we'll be true, whatever has 
 come and gone. Come, Sylvia." 
 
 His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing 
 her towards the door, his face all crimson with eager- 
 ness and hope. Just then the baby cried. 
 
74 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 
 " Hark ! " said she, starting away from Kinraid, 
 "baby is crying for me. His child — yes, it is his 
 child — I had forgotten that — forgotten all. I'll make 
 my vow now, lest I lose mysel' again. I'll niver 
 forgive yon man, nor live with him as his wife again. 
 All that's done and ended. He's spoilt my life, — he's 
 spoilt it for as long as iver I live on this earth ; but 
 neither you nor him shall spoil my soul. It goes 
 hard wi' me, Charley, it does indeed. I'll just give 
 you one kiss — >one little kiss — and then, so help me 
 God, I'll niver see nor hear till — no, not that, not 
 that is needed — I'll niver see — sure that's enough — 
 I'll niver see yo' again on this side heaven, so help 
 me God ! I'm bound and tied, but I have sworn my 
 oath to him as well as yo' : there's things I will do, 
 and there's things I won't. Kiss me once more. 
 God help me, he is gone ! " 
 
75 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A RECKLESS RECRUIT. 
 
 She lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched 
 out, her face unseen. Every now and then a thrill 
 ran through her body : she was talking to herself all 
 the time with incessant low incontinence of words. 
 
 Philip stood near her, motionless : he did not know 
 whether she was conscious of his presence ; in fact, 
 he knew nothing but that he and she were sundered 
 for ever ; he could only take in that one idea, and 
 it numbed all other thought. 
 
 Once more her baby cried for the comfort she 
 alone could give. 
 
 She rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried 
 to walk; her glazed eyes fell upon Philip as he 
 instinctively made a step to hold her steady. No 
 light came into her eyes any more than if she had 
 looked upon a perfect stranger ; not even was there 
 the contraction of dislike. Some other figure filled 
 her mind, and she saw him no more than she saw the 
 
76 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 inanimate table. That way of looking at him 
 withered him up more than any sign of aversion 
 would have done. 
 
 He watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and 
 vanish, out of sight; and sat down with a sudden 
 feeling of extreme bodily weakness. 
 
 The door of communication between the parlour 
 and the shop was opened. That was the first event 
 of which Philip took note ; but Phoebe had come in 
 unawares to him, with the intention of removing the 
 breakfast things on her return from market, and 
 seeing them unused, and knowing that Sylvia had 
 sate up all night with her mother, she had gone 
 back to the kitchen. Philip had neither seen nor 
 heard her. 
 
 Now Coulson came in, amazed at Hepburn's non- 
 appearance in the shop. 
 
 "Why! Philip, what's ado? How ill you look, 
 man ! " exclaimed he, thoroughly alarmed by Philip's 
 ghastly appearance. (( What's the matter ? " 
 
 " I ! " said Philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. 
 " Why should there be anything the matter ? " 
 
 His instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made 
 him shrink from his misery being noticed, much 
 more made any subject for explanation or sympathy. 
 
 " There may be nothing the matter wi' thee," said 
 
A EECKLESS EECKUIT. 
 
 77 
 
 Coulson, " but thou's the look of a corpse on thy 
 face. I was afeard something was wrong, for it's 
 half-past nine, and thee so punctual ! " 
 
 He almost guarded Philip into the shop, and kept 
 furtively watching him, and perplexing himself with 
 Philip's odd, strange ways. 
 
 Hester, too, observed the heavy broken-down ex- 
 pression on Philip's ashen face, and her heart ached 
 for him ; but after that first glance, which told her 
 so much, she avoided all appearance of noticing or 
 watching. Only a shadow brooded over her sweet, 
 calm face, and once or twice she sighed to herself. 
 
 It was market-day, and people came in and out, 
 bringing their store of gossip from the country, or 
 the town — from the farm or the quay-side. 
 
 Among the pieces of news, the rescue of the 
 smack the night before furnished a large topic ; and 
 by-and-by Philip heard a name that startled him into 
 attention. 
 
 The landlady of a small public-house much fre- 
 quented by sailors was talking to Coulson. 
 
 " There was a sailor aboard of her who knew 
 Kinraid by sight, in Shields, years ago; and he 
 called him by his name afore they were well out 
 of the river. And Kinraid was no ways set up, for 
 all his lieutenant's uniform (and eh! but they say 
 
78 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 he looks handsome in it !) ; but he tells 'em all about 
 it — how he was pressed aboard a man-o'-war, and for 
 his good conduct were made a warrant officer, boat- 
 swain, or something ! " 
 
 All the people in the shop were listening now ; 
 Philip alone seemed engrossed in folding up a piece 
 of cloth, so as to leave no possible chance of creases 
 in it ; yet he lost not a syllable of the good woman's 
 narration. 
 
 She, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale 
 had attracted, went on with fresh vigour. 
 
 "And there's a gallant captain, one Sir Sidney 
 Smith, and he'd a notion o' going right into a French 
 port, and carrying off a vessel from right under their 
 very noses ; and says he, e Which of you British 
 sailors '11 go along with me to death or glory ? ' 
 So Kinraid stands up like a man, and e I'll go with 
 you, captain,' he says. So they, and some others as 
 brave, went off, and did their work, and choose what- 
 iver it was, they did it famously; but they got 
 caught by them French, and were clapped into a 
 prison in France for iver so long; but at last one 
 Philip — Philip something (he were a Frenchman, I 
 know) — helped 'em to escape, in a fishing-boat. But 
 they were welcomed by the whole British squadron 
 as was in the Channel for the piece of daring they'd 
 
A EECKLESS RECRUIT. 
 
 79 
 
 done in cutting out t' sliip from a French port ; 
 and Captain Sir Sidney Smith was made an admiral, 
 and him as we used to call Charley Kinraid, the 
 specksioneer, is made a lieutenant, and a commissioned 
 officer in t' King's service ; and is come to great 
 glory, and slep in my house this very blessed night 
 as is just past ! " 
 
 A murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing 
 buzzed all around Philip. All this was publicly 
 known about Kinraid, — and how much more ? All 
 Monkshaven might hear to-morrow — nay, to-day — 
 of Philip's treachery to the hero of the hour ; how 
 he had concealed his fate, and supplanted him in his 
 love. 
 
 Philip shrank from the burst of popular indig- 
 nation which he knew must follow. Any wrong 
 done to one who stands on the pinnacle of the 
 people's favour is resented by each individual as a 
 personal injury ; and among a primitive set of 
 country-folk, who recognize the wild passion in 
 love, as it exists untamed by the trammels of reason 
 and self-restraint, any story of baulked affections, 
 or treachery in such matters, spreads like wildt 
 fire. 
 
 Philip knew this quite well ; his doom of disgrace 
 lay plain before him, if only Kinraid spoke the word. 
 
80 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 His head was bent down while he thus listened and 
 reflected. He half resolved on doing something ; he 
 lifted up his head, caught the reflection of his face 
 in the little strip of glass on the opposite side, in 
 which the women might look at themselves in their 
 contemplated purchases, and quite resolved. 
 
 The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long 
 sad pale face, made plainer and greyer by the heavy 
 pressure of the morning's events. He saw his stoop- 
 ing figure, his rounded shoulders, with something 
 like a feeling of disgust at his personal appearance 
 as he remembered the square, upright build of 
 Kinraid ; his fine uniform, with epaulette and sword- 
 belt ; his handsome brown face; his dark eyes, 
 splendid with the fire of passion and indignation, 
 his white teeth gleaming out with the terrible smile 
 of scorn. 
 
 The comparison drove Philip from passive hope- 
 lessness to active despair. 
 
 He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the 
 empty parlour, and on into the kitchen where he 
 took up a piece of bread, and heedless of Phoebe's 
 look and words, began to eat it before he even left 
 the place ; for he needed the strength that food 
 would give ; he needed it to carry him out of the 
 sight and the knowledge of all who might hear 
 
A RECKLESS RECRUIT. 
 
 81 
 
 what lie had done, and point out their fingers at 
 him. 
 
 He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, 
 setting his teeth tight together, he went up-stairs, 
 
 First of all he went into the bit of a room open- 
 ing out of theirs, in which his baby slept. He 
 dearly loved the child, and many a time would run 
 in and play a while with it ; and in such gambols 
 he and Sylvia had passed their happiest moments 
 of wedded life. 
 
 The little Bella was having her morning slumber ; 
 Nancy used to tell long afterwards how he knelt 
 down by the side of her cot, and was so strange 
 she thought he must have prayed, for all it was nigh 
 upon eleven o'clock, and folk in their senses only 
 said their prayers when they got up, and when they 
 went to bed. 
 
 Then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the 
 child a long, lingering, soft, fond kiss. 
 
 And on tip-toe he passed aw T ay into the room 
 where his aunt lay ; his aunt who had been so true 
 a friend to him ! He was thankful to know that 
 in her present state she was safe from the knowledge 
 of what was past, safe from the sound of the shame 
 to come. 
 
 He had not meant to see Sylvia again ; he dreaded 
 vol. in. 45 
 
82 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 the look of her hatred, her scorn ; but there, out- 
 side her mother's bed she lay, apparently asleep. 
 Mrs. Robson, too, was sleeping, her face towards the 
 wall. Philip could not help it ; he went to have one 
 last look at his wife. She was turned towards her 
 mother, her face averted from him ; he could see the 
 tear-stains, the swollen eye-lids, the lips yet quiver- 
 ing : he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand 
 that lay listless by her side. As his hot breath 
 neared that hand it was twitched away, and a shiver 
 ran through the whole prostrate body. And then 
 he knew that she was not asleep, only worn out by 
 her misery, — misery that he had caused. 
 
 He sighed heavily; but he went away, down- 
 stairs, and away for ever. Only as he entered the 
 parlour his eyes caught on two silhouettes, one of 
 himself, one of Sylvia, done in the first month of 
 their marriage, by some wandering artist, if so he 
 could be called. They were hanging against the 
 wall in little oval wooden frames ; black profiles, with 
 the lights done in gold ; about as poor semblances 
 of humanity as could be conceived : but Philip went 
 up, and after looking' for a minute or so at Sylvia's, 
 he took it down, and buttoned his waistcoat over it. 
 
 It was the only thing he took away from his home. 
 
 He went down the entry on to the quay. The 
 
A KECKLESS RECRUIT. 
 
 83 
 
 river was there, and waters, they say, have a luring 
 power, and a weird promise of rest in their perpetual 
 monotony of sound. But many people were there, 
 if such a temptation presented itself to Philip's mind ; 
 the sight of his fellow-townsmen, perhaps of Ids 
 acquaintances, drove him up another entry — the 
 town is burrowed with such — back into the High 
 Street, which he straightway crossed into a well- 
 known court, out of which rough steps led to the sum- 
 mit of the hill, and on to the fells and moors beyond. 
 
 He plunged and panted up this rough ascent. 
 From the top he could look down on the whole town 
 lying below, severed by the bright shining river 
 into two parts. To the right lay the sea, shimmering 
 and heaving ; there were the cluster of masts rising 
 out of the little port ; the irregular roofs of the 
 houses ; which of them, thought he, as he carried 
 his eye along the quay side to the market-place, 
 which of them was his ? and he singled it out in its 
 unfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke 
 rising from the kitchen chimney, where even now 
 Phoebe was cooking the household meal that he never 
 more must share. 
 
 Up at that thought and away, he knew not and 
 cared not where. He went through the ploughed 
 fields where the corn was newly springing ; he came 
 
 45—2 
 
84 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 down upon the vast sunny sea, and turned his back 
 upon it with loathing ; he made his way inland to the 
 high green pastures: the short upland turf above 
 which the larks hung poised es at heaven's gate." He 
 strode along, so straight and heedless of briar and 
 bush, that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, 
 and looked after him with their great blank puzzled 
 eyes. 
 
 He had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, 
 and was fairly on the desolate brown moors ; through 
 the withered last year's ling and fern, through the 
 prickly gorse, he tramped, crushing down the tender 
 shoots of this year's growth, and heedless of the 
 startled plover's cry, goaded by the furies. His only 
 relief from thought, from the remembrance of Sylvia's 
 looks and words, was in violent bodily action. 
 
 So he went on till evening shadows and ruddy 
 evening lights came out upon the wild fells. 
 
 He had crossed roads and lanes, w r ith a bitter 
 avoidance of men's tracks; but now the strong 
 instinct of self-preservation came out, and his aching 
 limbs, his weary heart, giving great pants and beats 
 for a time, and then ceasing altogether till a mist 
 swam and quivered before his aching eyes, warned 
 him that he must find some shelter and food, or lie 
 down to die. He fell down now, often ; stumbling 
 
A RECKLESS RECRUIT. 
 
 85 
 
 over the slightest obstacle. He had passed the cattle 
 pastures; he was among the black-faced sheep; and 
 they, too, ceased nibbling, and looked after him, and 
 somehow in his poor wandering imagination their sill y 
 faces turned to likenesses of Monkshaven people, — 
 people who ought to be far, far away. 
 
 " Thou'll be belated on these fells, if thou doesn't 
 tak' heed," shouted some one. 
 
 Philip looked abroad to see from whence the voice 
 proceeded. 
 
 An old stiff-legged shepherd, in a smock-frock, was 
 within a couple of hundred yards. Philip did not 
 answer, but staggered and stumbled towards him. 
 
 ee Good lork ! " said the man, <c where hast ta 
 been ? Thou's seen Old Harry, I think, thou looks 
 so scared." 
 
 Philip rallied himself, and tried to speak up to the 
 old standard of respectability; but the effort was 
 pitiful to see, had any one been by, who could have 
 understood the pain it caused to restrain cries of 
 bodily and mental agony. 
 
 " I've lost my way, that's all." 
 
 " 'Twould ha' been enough too, I'm thinking, if I 
 hadn't come out after t' ewes. There's t' Three 
 Griffins near at hand : a sup o' Hollands '11 set thee to 
 rights." 
 
86 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 Philip followed faintly. He could not see before 
 him, and was guided by the sound of footsteps rather 
 than by the sight of the figure moving onwards. He 
 kept stumbling ; and he knew that the old shepherd 
 swore at him ; but he also knew such curses proceeded 
 from no ill-will, only from annoyance at the delay in 
 going and " seeing after t' ewes." But had the man's 
 words conveyed the utmost expression of hatred, 
 Philip would neither have wondered at them, nor 
 resented them. 
 
 They came into a wild mountain road, unfenced 
 from the fells. A hundred yards off, and there was a 
 small public-house, with a broad ruddy oblong of fire- 
 light shining across the tract. 
 
 6C There ! " said the old man. (e Thee cannot 
 well miss that. A dunno tho', thee bees such a 
 gawby." 
 
 So he went on, and delivered Philip safely up to 
 the landlord. 
 
 ee Here's a felly as I found on t' fell side, just as one 
 as if he were drunk ; but he's sober enough, a reckon^ 
 only summat's wrong i' his head, a'm thinking." 
 
 " No ! " said Philip, sitting down on the first chair 
 he came to. "I'm right enough; just fairly wearied 
 out : lost my way," and he fainted. 
 
 There was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting 
 
A EECKLESS RECRUIT. 
 
 87 
 
 in the houseplace, drinking. He, too, like Philip, had 
 lost his way ; but was turning his blunder to account 
 by telling all manner of wonderful stories to two or 
 three rustics who had come in ready to drink on any 
 pretence; especially if they could get good liquor 
 without paying for it. 
 
 The sergeant rose as Philip fell back, and brought 
 up his own mug of beer, into which a noggin of gin 
 had been put (called in Yorkshire 6i dog's-nose "). 
 He partly poured and partly spilt some of this 
 beverage on Philip's face ; some drops went through 
 the pale and parted lips, and with a start the worn- 
 out man revived. 
 
 ce Bring him some victual, landlord," called out the 
 recruiting sergeant. " I'll stand shot." 
 
 They brought some cold bacon and coarse oat-cake. 
 The sergeant asked for pepper and salt ; minced the 
 food fine and made it savoury, and kept administer- 
 ing it by teaspoonfuls ; urging Philip to drink from 
 time to time from his own cup of dog's-nose. 
 
 A burning thirst, which needed no stimulant from 
 either pepper or salt, took possession of Philip, and he 
 drank freely, scarcely recognizing what he drank. It 
 took effect on one so habitually sober ; and he was 
 soon in that state when the imagination works wildly 
 and freely. 
 
88 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 He saw the sergeant before him, handsome, and 
 bright, and active, in his gay red uniform, without a 
 care, as it seemed to Philip, taking life lightly; 
 admired and respected everywhere because of his 
 cloth. 
 
 If Philip were gay, and brisk, well-dressed like 
 him, returning with martial glory to Monkshaven, 
 would not Sylvia love him once more ? Could not 
 he win her heart ? He was brave by nature, and the 
 prospect of danger did not daunt him, if ever it pre- 
 sented itself to his imagination. 
 
 He thought he was cautious in entering on the 
 subject of enlistment with his new friend, the 
 sergeant ; but the latter was twenty times as cunning 
 as he, and knew by experience how to bait his hook. 
 
 Philip was older by some years than the regulation 
 age ; but, at that time of great demand for men, the 
 question of age was lightly entertained. The sergeant 
 was profuse in statements of the advantages presented 
 to a man of education in his branch of the service ; 
 how such a one was sure to rise ; in fact, it would 
 have seemed from the sergeant's account, as though 
 the difficulty consisted in remaining in the ranks. 
 
 Philip's dizzy head thought the subject over and 
 over again, each time with failing power of reason. 
 
 At length, almost, as it would seem, by some sleight 
 
A RECKLESS RECRUIT. 
 
 89 
 
 of hand, he found the fatal shilling in his palm, and 
 had promised to go before the nearest magistrate to 
 be sworn in as one of his Majesty's marines the next 
 morning;. And after that he remembered nothing 
 more. 
 
 He wakened up in a little truckle-bed in the same 
 room as the sergeant, who lay sleeping the sleep of 
 full contentment ; while gradually, drop by drop, the 
 bitter recollections of the day before came, filling up 
 Philip's cup of agony. 
 
 He knew that he had received the bounty-money ; 
 and though he was aware that he had been partly 
 tricked into it, and had no hope, no care, indeed, for 
 any of the advantages so liberally promised him the 
 night before, yet he was resigned, with utterly despon- 
 dent passiveness, to the fate to which he had pledged 
 himself. Anything was welcome that severed him 
 from his former life, that could make him forget it, 
 if that were possible; and also welcome anything 
 which increased the chances of death without the 
 sinfulness of his own participation in the act. He 
 found in the dark recess of his mind the dead body 
 of his fancy of the previous night; that he might 
 come home, handsome and glorious, to win the love 
 that had never been his. 
 
 But he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of 
 
90 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 his sight — so full of despair was he. He could eat 
 no breakfast, though the sergeant ordered of the best. 
 The latter kept watching his new recruit out of the 
 corner of his eye, expecting a remonstrance, or 
 dreading a sudden bolt. 
 
 But Philip walked with him the two or three miles 
 in the most submissive silence, never uttering a 
 syllable of regret or repentance ; and before Justice 
 Cholmeley, of Holm-Fell Hall, he was sworn into his 
 Majesty's service, under the name of Stephen 
 Freeman. With a new name, he began a new life. 
 Alas ! the old life lives for ever ! 
 
91 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THINGS UNUTTERABLE. 
 
 After Philip had passed out of the room, Sylvia lay 
 perfectly still, from very exhaustion. Her mother 
 slept on, happily unconscious of all the turmoil 
 that had taken place ; yes, happily, though the heavy 
 sleep was to end in death. But of this her daughter 
 knew nothing, imagining that it was refreshing 
 slumber, instead of an ebbing of life. Both mother and 
 daughter lay motionless till Phoebe entered the room 
 to tell Sylvia that dinner was on the table. 
 
 Then Sylvia sate up, and put back her hair, 
 bewildered and uncertain as to what was to be done 
 next ; how she should meet the husband to whom she 
 had discarded all allegiance, repudiated the SQlemn 
 promise of love and obedience which she had vowed. 
 
 Phoebe came into the room, with natural interest in 
 the invalid, scarcely older than herself. 
 
 " How is t' old lady ? " asked she, in a low 
 voice. 
 
92 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 Sylvia turned her head round to look ; her mother 
 had never moved, but was breathing in a loud un- 
 comfortable manner, that made her stoop over her to 
 see the averted face more nearly. 
 
 " Phoebe ! " she cried, " come here ! She looks 
 strange and odd ; her eyes are open, but do not see 
 me. Phoebe! Phoebe!" 
 
 (e Sure enough, she's in a bad way ! " said Phcebe, 
 climbing stiffly on the bed to have a nearer view. 
 "Hold her head a little up to ease her breathing 
 while I go for master ; he'll be for sending for t' 
 doctor, I'll be bound." 
 
 Sylvia took her mother's head and laid it fondly 
 on her breast, speaking to her and trying to rouse her ; 
 but it was of no avail : the hard, stertorous breathing 
 grew worse and worse. 
 
 Sylvia cried out for help ; Nancy came, the baby 
 in her arms. They had been in several times before 
 that morning ; and the child came smiling and 
 crowing at its mother, who was supporting her own 
 dying parent. 
 
 " Oh, Nancy ! " said Sylvia ; " what is the matter 
 with mother ? you can see her face ; tell me 
 quick ! " 
 
 Nancy set the baby on the bed for all reply, and 
 ran out of the room, crying out, 
 
THINGS UNUTTERABLE. 
 
 93 
 
 " Master ! master ! Come quick ! T' old missus 
 is a-dying ! " 
 
 This appeared to be no news to Sylvia, and yet the 
 words came on her with a great shock, but for all 
 that she could not cry ; she was surprised herself at 
 her own deadness of feeling. 
 
 Her baby crawled to her, and she had to hold and 
 guard both her mother and her child. It seemed a long, 
 long time before any one came, and then she heard 
 muffled voices, and a heavy tramp : it was Phoebe 
 leading the doctor upstairs, and Nancy creeping in 
 behind to hear his opinion. 
 
 He did not ask many questions, and Phoebe replied 
 more frequently to his inquiries than did Sylvia, who 
 looked into his face with a blank, tearless, speechless 
 despair that gave him more pain than the sight of her 
 dying mother. 
 
 The long decay of Mrs. Robson's faculties and 
 health, of which he was well aware, had, in a certain 
 manner, prepared him for some such sudden termination 
 of the life whose duration was hardly desirable, although 
 he gave several directions as to her treatment ; but 
 the white, pinched face, the great dilated eye, the 
 slow comprehension of the younger woman, struck 
 him with alarm ; and he went on asking for various 
 particulars, more with a view of rousing Sylvia, if 
 
94 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 even it were to tears, than for any other purpose 
 that the information thus obtained could answer. 
 
 " You had best have pillows propped up behind her 
 — it will not be for long ; she does not know that 
 you are holding her, and it is only tiring you to no 
 purpose ! " 
 
 Sylvia's terrible stare continued ; he put his advice 
 into action, and gently tried to loosen her clasp, and 
 tender hold. This she resisted; laying her cheek 
 against her poor mother's unconscious face. 
 
 "Where is Hepburn?" said he. "He ought to 
 be here ! " 
 
 Phoebe looked at Nancy, Nancy at Phoebe. It was 
 the latter who replied. 
 
 " He's neither i' t' house nor i' t' shop. A seed 
 him go past t' kitchen window better nor an hour 
 ago; but neither William Coulson or Hester Rose 
 knows where he's gone to." 
 
 Dr. Morgan's lips were puckered up into a whistle, 
 but he made no sound. 
 
 " Give me baby ! " he said, suddenly. Nancy had 
 taken her up off the bed where she had been sitting, 
 encircled by her mother's arm. The nursemaid gave 
 her to the doctor. He watched the mother's eye, it 
 followed her child, and he was rejoiced. He gave 
 a little pinch to the baby's soft flesh, and she cried 
 
THINGS UNUTTEKABLE. 
 
 95 
 
 out piteously ; again the same action, the same result. 
 Sylvia laid her mother down, and stretched out 
 her arms for her child, hushing it, and moaning 
 over it. 
 
 " So far so good ! " said Dr. Morgan to himself. 
 " But where is the husband ? He ought to be here." 
 He went downstairs to make inquiry for Philip ; that 
 poor young creature, about whose health he had 
 never felt thoroughly satisfied since the fever after 
 her confinement, was in an anxious condition, and 
 with an inevitable shock awaiting her. Her hus- 
 band ought to be with her, and supporting her to 
 bear it. 
 
 Dr. Morgan went into the shop. Hester alone 
 was there. Coulson had gone to his comfortable 
 dinner at his well-ordered house, with his common- 
 place wife. If he had felt anxious about Philip's looks 
 and strange disappearance, he had also managed to 
 account for them in some indifferent way. 
 
 Hester was alone with the shop-boy; few people 
 came in during the universal Monkshaven dinner- 
 hour. She was resting her head on her hand, and 
 puzzled and distressed about many things — all that 
 was implied by the proceedings of the evening 
 before between Philip and Sylvia; and that was 
 confirmed by Philip's miserable looks, and strange 
 
96 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 abstracted ways to-day. Oh ! how easy Hester would 
 have found it to make him happy ! not merely how 
 easy, but what happiness it would have been to her 
 to merge her every wish into the one great object 
 of fulfilling his will. To her, an on-looker, the 
 course of married life, which should lead to perfect 
 happiness, seemed so plain ! Alas ! it is often so ; 
 and the resisting forces which make all such harmony 
 and delight impossible are not recognized by the 
 bystanders, hardly by the actors. But if these re- 
 sisting forces are only superficial, or constitutional, 
 they are but the necessary discipline here, and do 
 not radically affect the love which will make all 
 things right in heaven. 
 
 Some glimmering of this latter comforting truth 
 shed its light on Hester's troubled thoughts from 
 time to time. But again, how easy would it have 
 been to her to tread the maze that led to Philip's 
 happiness ; and how difficult it seemed to the wife 
 he had chosen ! 
 
 She was aroused by Dr. Morgan's voice. 
 
 "So both Coulson and Hepburn have left the shop 
 to your care, Hester. I want Hepburn, though ; his 
 wife is in a very anxious state. Where is he ? can 
 you tell me ? " 
 
 " Sylvia in an anxious state ! I have not seen 
 
THINGS UNUTTERABLE. 
 
 97 
 
 her to-day, but last night she looked as well as 
 could be." 
 
 "Ay, ay; but many a thing happens in four- 
 and-twenty hours. Her mother is dying, may be 
 dead by this time ; and her husband should be there 
 with her. Can't you send for him ? " 
 
 " I don't know where he is," said Hester. " He 
 went off from here all on a sudden, when there was 
 all the market-folks in the shop ; I thought he had 
 maybe gone to John Foster's about the money, for 
 they was paying a deal in. I'll send there and 
 inquire." 
 
 No ! the messenger brought back word that he had 
 not been seen at their bank all morning. Further 
 inquiries were made by the anxious Hester, by the 
 doctor, by Coulson ; all they could learn was that 
 Phoebe had seen him pass the kitchen window about 
 eleven o'clock, when she was peeling the potatoes 
 for dinner; and two lads playing on the quay side 
 thought they had seen him among a group of sailors ; 
 but these latter, as &tr as they could be identified, 
 had no knowledge of his appearance among them. 
 
 Before niffht the whole town was excited about 
 his disappearance. Before night Bell Eobson had 
 gone to her long home. And Sylvia still lay quiet 
 and tearless, apparently more unmoved than any 
 
 vol. in. 46 
 
98 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 other creature by the events of the day, and the 
 strange vanishing of her husband. 
 
 The only thing she seemed to care for was her 
 baby ; she held it tight in her arms, and Dr. Morgan 
 bade them leave it there, its touch might draw the 
 desired tears into her weary, sleepless eyes, and 
 charm the aching pain out of them. 
 
 They were afraid lest she should inquire for her 
 husband, whose non-appearance at such a time of 
 sorrow to his wife must (they thought) seem strange 
 to her. And night drew on while they were all in 
 this state. She had gone back to her own room 
 without a word when they had desired her to do 
 so ; caressing her child in her arms, and sitting down 
 on the first chair she came to, with a heavy sigh, as 
 if even this slight bodily exertion had been too much 
 for her. They saw her eyes turn towards the door 
 every time it was opened, and they thought it was 
 with anxious expectation of one who could not be 
 found, though many were seeking for him in all 
 probable places. 
 
 When night came some one had to tell her of her 
 husband's disappearance ; and Dr. Morgan was the 
 person who undertook this. 
 
 He came into her room about nine o'clock; her baby 
 was sleeping in her arms ; she herself pale as death, 
 
THINGS UNUTTERABLE. 
 
 99 
 
 still silent and tearless, though strangely watchful of 
 gestures and sounds, and probably cognizant of more 
 than they imagined. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Hepburn," said he, as cheerfully as he 
 could, "I should advise your going to bed early; 
 for I fancy your husband won't come home to-night. 
 Some journey or other, that perhaps Coulson can 
 explain better than I can, will most likely keep him 
 away till to-morrow. It is very unfortunate that he 
 should be away at such a sad time as this, as I am 
 sure he will feel when he returns ; but we must 
 make the best of it." 
 
 He watched her to see the effect of his words. 
 
 She sighed, that was all. He still remained a little 
 while. She lifted her head up a little and asked, 
 
 " How long do yo' think she was unconscious, 
 doctor ? Could she hear things, think yo', afore she 
 fell into that strange kind o 9 slumber ? " 
 
 <c I cannot tell," said he, shaking his head. u Was 
 she breathing in that hard snoring kind of way when 
 you left her this morning ? " 
 
 "Yes, I think so; I cannot tell, so much has 
 happened." 
 
 " When you came back to her, after your break- 
 fast, I think you said she was in much the same 
 position ? " 
 
 46—2 
 
100 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " Yes, and yet I may be telling yo' lies ; if I could 
 but think : but it's my bead as is aching so ; doctor, 
 I wish yo'd go, for I need being alone, I'm so 
 mazed." 
 
 " Good-night, then, for you're a wise woman, I see, 
 and mean to go to bed, and have a good night with 
 baby there." 
 
 But he went down to Phoebe and told her to go in 
 from time to time and see how her mistress was. 
 
 He found Hester Kose and the old servant 
 together ; both had been crying, both were evidently 
 in great trouble about the death and the mystery of 
 the day. 
 
 Hester asked if she might go up and see Sylvia, 
 and the doctor gave his leave, talking meanwhile with 
 Phoebe over the kitchen fire. Hester came down 
 again without seeing Sylvia. The door of the room 
 was bolted, and everything quiet inside. 
 
 <( Does she know where her husband is, think 
 you ? " asked the doctor at this account of Hester's. 
 " She's not anxious about him at any rate ; or else the 
 shock of her mother's death has been too much for 
 her. "We must hope for some change in the morn- 
 ing; a good fit of crying, or a fidget about her 
 husband, would be more natural. Good night to you 
 both," and off he went. 
 
THINGS UNUTTERABLE. 
 
 101 
 
 Phoebe and Hester avoided looking at each other 
 at these words. Both were conscious of the proba- 
 bility of something having gone seriously wrong 
 between the husband and wife. Hester had the 
 recollection of the previous night, Phoebe the un- 
 tasted breakfast of to-day to go upon. 
 
 She spoke first. 
 
 " A just wish he'd come home to still folks' tongues. 
 It need niver ha' been known if t' old lady hadn't 
 died this day of all others. It's such a thing for t' 
 shop t' have one o' t' partners missing, and no one 
 for t' know what's corned on him. It niver happened 
 i' Fosters' days, that's all I know." 
 
 " He'll maybe come back yet," said Hester. "It's 
 not so very late." 
 
 66 It were market day, and a'," continued Phoebe, 
 "just as if ivery thing mun go wrong together; and 
 a' t' country customers '11 go back wi' fine tale in 
 their mouths, as Measter Hepburn was strayed and 
 missing just like a beast o' some kind." 
 
 "Hark! isn't that a step?" said Hester suddenly, 
 as a footfall sounded in the now quiet street ; but it 
 passed the door, and the hope that had arisen on its 
 approach fell as the sound died away. 
 
 " He'll noan come to-night," said Phoebe, who had 
 been as eager a listener as Hester, however. " Thou'd 
 
102 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 best go thy ways home ; a shall stay up, for it's not 
 seemly for us all to go to our beds, and a corpse in t ? 
 house ; and Nancy, as might ha' watched, is gone to 
 her bed this hour past, like a lazy boots as she is. A 
 can hear, too, if t' measter does come home ; tho' a'll 
 be bound he won't ; choose where he is, he'll be in bed 
 by now, for it's well on to eleven. I'll let thee out 
 by t' shop door, and stand by it till thou's close at 
 home, for it's ill for a young woman to be i' t' street 
 so late." 
 
 So she held the door open, and shaded the candle 
 from the flickering outer air, while Hester went to her 
 home with a heavy heart. 
 
 Heavily and hopelessly did they all meet in the 
 morning. No news of Philip, no change in Sylvia ; 
 an unceasing flow of angling and conjecture and 
 gossip radiating from the shop into the town. 
 
 Hester could have entreated Coulson on her knees 
 to cease from repeating the details of a story of which 
 every word touched on a raw place in her sensitive 
 heart ; moreover, when they talked together so eagerly, 
 she could not hear the coming footsteps on the pave- 
 ment without. 
 
 Once some one hit very near the truth in a chance 
 remark. 
 
 " It seems strange," she said, " how as one man 
 
THINGS UNUTTERABLE. 
 
 103 
 
 turns up another just disappears. Why, it were but 
 upo' Tuesday as Kinraid came back, as all his 
 own folk had thought to be dead ; and next day 
 here's Measter Hepburn as is gone no one knows 
 where ! " 
 
 " That's t' way i' this world/' replied Coulson, a 
 little sententiously. (e This life is full o' changes o' one 
 kind or another ; them that's dead is alive ; and as 
 for poor Philip, though he was alive, he looked fitter 
 to be dead when he came into t' shop o' Wednesday 
 morning." 
 
 " And how does she take it ? " nodding to where 
 Sylvia was supposed to be. 
 
 " Oh ! she's not herself, so to say. She were just 
 stunned by finding her mother was dying in her very 
 arms when she thought as she were only sleeping ; 
 yet she's never been able to cry a drop ; so that t' 
 sorrow's gone inwards on her brain, and from all 
 I can hear, she doesn't rightly understand as her 
 husband is missing. T' doctor says if she could 
 but cry, she'd come to a juster comprehension of 
 things." 
 
 i( And what do John and Jeremiah Foster say 
 to it all?" 
 
 " They're down here many a time in t' day to ask 
 if he's come back, or how she is ; for they made a 
 
104 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 deal on 'em both. They're going t' attend t' funeral 
 to-morrow, and have given orders as t' shop is to 
 be shut up in t' morning." 
 
 To the surprise of every one, Sylvia, who had 
 never left her room since the night of her mother's 
 death, and was supposed to be almost unconscious of 
 all that was going on in the house, declared her 
 intention of following her mother to the grave. No 
 one could do more than remonstrate: no one had 
 sufficient authority to interfere with her. Dr. Mor- 
 gan even thought that she might possibly be roused 
 to tears by the occasion ; only he begged Hester to 
 go with her, that she might have the solace of some 
 woman's company. 
 
 She went through the greater part of the ceremony 
 in the same hard, unmoved manner in which she had 
 received everything for days past. 
 
 But on looking up once, as they formed round the 
 open grave, she saw Kester, in his Sunday clothes, 
 with a bit of new crape round his hat, crying as 
 if his heart would break over the coffin of his good, 
 kind mistress. 
 
 His evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly 
 loosed the fountain of Sylvia's tears, and her sobs 
 grew so terrible that Hester feared she would not 
 be able to remain until the end of the funeral. But 
 
THINGS UNUTTERABLE. 
 
 105 
 
 she struggled hard to stay till the last, and then she 
 made an effort to go round by the place where 
 Kester stood. 
 
 " Come and see me," was all she could say for 
 crying : and Kester only nodded his head — he could 
 not speak a word. 
 
106 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MYSTEKIOUS 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 making her out; sometimes she's for 
 one thing, sometimes she's for another." 
 
 " She bid me come and see her," said Kester. 
 ee Only this morning, at missus' burying, she telled 
 me to come." 
 
 So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester 
 was there ; and returned with the desire that he 
 would walk into the parlour. An instant after he 
 was gone, Phoebe heard him return, and carefully 
 shut the two doors of communication between the 
 kitchen and sitting-room. 
 
 Sylvia was in the latter when Kester came in, 
 holding her baby close to her ; indeed, she seldom let 
 it go now-a-days to any one else, making Nancy's 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 107 
 
 place quite a sinecure, much to Phoebe's indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 Sylvia's face was shrunk, and white, and thin ; 
 her lovely eyes alone retained the youthful, almost 
 child-like, expression. She went up to Kester, 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 down her sobs. 
 
 " Kester," she went on, hastily, " Charley Kinraid 
 is not dead; dost ta know? He's alive, and he 
 were here o' Tuesday— -no, Monday, was it ? I 
 cannot tell — but he were here ! " 
 
 e£ A knowed as he weren't dead. Every one is 
 a-speaking on it. But a didn't know as thee'd ha' 
 seen him. A took comfort i' thinking as thou'd 
 ha' been wi' thy mother a' t' time as he were i' t' 
 place." 
 
 ee Then he's gone ? " said Sylvia. 
 
 " Gone ; ay, days past. As far as a know, he 
 but stopped a' night. A thought to mysel (but yo' 
 may be sure a said nought to nobody) he's heard 
 as our Sylvie were married, and has put it in his 
 pipe, and ta'en hissel' off to smoke it." 
 
108 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 
 " 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 a minute 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 ye ? T' very thought 
 turns me sick. I told Philip my mind, and took a 
 vow again him — but it would be awful to think 
 on harm happening to him through Kinraid. Yet 
 he went out that morning, and has niver been seen 
 or heard on sin' ; and Kinraid were just fell again 
 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 and time were it when Philip left this house ? " 
 " Tuesday — the day she died. I saw him in her 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 109 
 
 room that morning between breakfast and dinner ; 
 I could a'most swear to its being close after eleven. 
 I mind counting t' clock. It was that very morn 
 as Kinraid were here." 
 
 "A'll go and have a pint o' beer at t' King's 
 Arms, down on quay-side; it were there he put 
 up at. And a'm pretty sure as he only stopped one 
 night, and left i' t' morning betimes. But a'll 
 go see." 
 
 " Do," said Sylvia, " and go out through t' shop ; 
 they're all watching and watching me to see how 
 I take things ; and daren't let on about t' fire as 
 is burning up my heart. Coulson is i' t' shop, but 
 he'll not notice thee like Phoebe." 
 
 By-and-by Kester came back. It seemed as 
 though Sylvia had never stirred ; she looked eagerly 
 at him but did not speak. 
 
 "He went away i' Rob Mason's mail-cart, him 
 as takes t' letters to Hartlepool. T' lieutenant (as 
 they call him down at t' King's Arms ; they're 
 as proud on his uniform as if it had been a new 
 painted sign to swing o'er their doors), t' lieutenant 
 had reckoned upo' staying longer wi' 'em ; but he 
 went out betimes o' Tuesday morning, and came 
 back all ruffled up, and paid his bill — paid for his 
 breakfast, though he touched none on it — and went 
 
110 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 off i' Rob postman's mail-cart, as starts regular at ten 
 o'clock. Corneys has been there asking for him, and 
 making a piece o' work, as he niver went near 
 'em ; and they bees cousins. Niver a one amongst 
 'em knows as he were here as far as a could mak' 
 out." 
 
 " Thank yo', Kester," said Sylvia, falling back in 
 her chair, as if all the energy that had kept her 
 stiff and upright was gone now that her anxiety was 
 relieved. 
 
 She was silent for a long time ; her eyes shut, her 
 cheek laid on her child's head. Kester spoke 
 next. 
 
 " A think it's pretty clear as they'n niver met. 
 But it's a' t' more wonder 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 what I said to him, there, where she's 
 gone to — I am — " the tears filled her shut eyes, and 
 came softly overflowing down her cheeks ; " and yet 
 it were true, what I said, I cannot forgive him ; he's 
 just spoilt my life, 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 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 me his faithful love, and Philip saw my heart ache 
 day after day, and niver let on as him I was mourn- 
 ing for was alive, and had sent me word as he'd keep 
 true to me, as I were to do to him." 
 
 " A wish a'd been there ; a'd ha' felled him to t' 
 ground," said Kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand 
 with indignation. 
 
 Sylvia was silent again ; pale and weary she sate, 
 her eyes still shut. 
 
 Then she said, 
 
 " Yet he were so good to mother ; and mother 
 loved him so. Oh, Kester! " lifting herself up, open- 
 ing her great wistful eyes, " it's well for folks as can 
 die ; they're spared a deal o' misery." 
 
 cf Ay ! " said he. " But there's folk as one would 
 like to keep fra' shirking their misery. Think ye 
 now as Philip is living ? " 
 
 Sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she 
 replied. 
 
 " I don't know. I said such things ; he deserved 
 'em all " 
 
 " Well, well, lass ! " said Kester, sorry that he 
 had asked the question which was producing so much 
 emotion of one kind or another. ee Neither thee nor 
 me can tell ; we can neither help nor hinder, seeing 
 as he's ta'en hissel' off out on our sight, we'd best 
 
112 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 not think on him. A'll try and tell thee some news, 
 if a can think on it wi' my mind so full. Thou 
 know's Haytersbank folk ha' flitted, and t' oud place 
 is empty ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said Sylvia, with the indifference of one 
 wearied out with feeling;. 
 
 " A only telled yo' t' account like for me being at 
 a loose end i' Monkshaven. My sister, her as lived 
 at Dale End and is a widow, has corned int' town to 
 live ; and a'm lodging wi' her, and jobbing about. 
 A'm getting pretty well to do, and a'm noan far t' 
 seek, and a'm going now : only first a just wanted 
 for t' say as a'm thy oldest friend, 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 to 
 one who's known thy life from a babby, why yo've 
 only t' send for me, and a'd come if it were twenty 
 mile. A'm lodging at Peggy Dawson's, t' lath and 
 plaster cottage at t' right hand o' t' bridge, a' among 
 t' new houses, as they're thinking of building near t' 
 sea : no one can miss it." 
 
 He stood up and shook hands with her. As he 
 did so, he looked at her sleeping baby. 
 
 " She's liker yo' than him. A think a'll say God 
 bless her." 
 
 With the heavy sound of his out-going footsteps, 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 113 
 
 babv awoke. She ought before this time to have 
 been asleep in her bed, and the disturbance made her 
 cry fretfully. 
 
 " Hush thee, darling, hush thee ! " murmured her 
 mother ; " there's no one left to love me but thee, and 
 I cannot stand thy weeping, my pretty one. Hush 
 thee, my babe, hush thee ! " 
 
 She whispered soft in the little one's ear as she 
 took her upstairs to bed. 
 
 About three weeks after the miserable date of Bell 
 Robson's death and Philip's disappearance, Hester 
 Rose received a letter from him. She knew the 
 writing on the address well ; and it made her tremble 
 so much that it was many minutes before she dared 
 to open it, and make herself acquainted with the facts 
 it might disclose. 
 
 But she need not have feared ; there were no facts 
 told, unless the vague date of "London" might be 
 something to learn. Even that much might have 
 been found out by the post-mark, only she had been 
 too much taken by surprise to examine it. 
 
 It ran as follows : — 
 
 "Dear Hestek, — 
 
 " Tell those whom it may concern, that I have 
 left Monkshaven for ever. No one need trouble 
 vol. in. 47 
 
114 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 themselves about me ; I am provided for. Please to 
 make my humble apologies to my kind friends, the 
 Messrs. Foster, and to my partner, William Coulson. 
 Please to accept of my love, and to join the same to 
 your mother. Please to give my particular and 
 respectful duty and kind love to my aunt Isabella 
 Robson. Her daughter Sylvia knows what I have 
 always felt, and shall always feel, for her better than 
 I can ever put into language, so I send her no mes- 
 sage : God bless and keep my child. You must all 
 look on me as one dead ; as I am to you, and maybe 
 shall soon be in reality. 
 
 "Your affectionate and obedient friend to com- 
 mand, 
 
 "Philip Hepburn. 
 
 "P.S. — Oh, Hester! for God's sake, and mine, 
 look after ( f my wife,' scratched out) Sylvia, and my 
 child. I think Jeremiah Foster will help you to be 
 a friend to them. This is the last solemn request of 
 P. H. She is but very young." 
 
 Hester read this letter again and again, till her 
 heart caught the echo of its hopelessness, and sank 
 within her. She put it in her pocket, and reflected 
 upon it all the day long as she served in the shop. 
 
 The customers found her as gentle, but far more 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 115 
 
 inattentive, than usual. She thought that in the 
 evening she would go across the bridge and consult 
 with the two good old brothers Foster. But some- 
 thing 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, and confidence would 
 have necessitated such a confession about Kinraid as 
 it was most difficult for Sylvia to make. The poor 
 young wife yet felt that some step must be taken by 
 her ; and what it was to be she could not imagine. 
 
 She had no home to go to ; for as Philip was gone 
 away, she remained where she was only on suffer- 
 ance ; she did not know what means of livelihood she 
 had ; she was willing to work, nay, would be thank- 
 ful to take up her old life of country labour; but 
 with her baby, what could she do ? 
 
 In this dilemma, the recollection of the old man's 
 kindly speech and offer of assistance, made, it is true, 
 half in joke, at the end of her wedding visit, came 
 into her mind ; and she resolved to go and ask for 
 some of the friendly counsel and assistance then 
 offered. 
 
 It would be the first time of her going out since 
 her mother's funeral, and she dreaded the effort on 
 
 47—2 
 
116 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 that account. More even than on that account did 
 she shrink from going into the streets again. She 
 could not get over the impression that Kinraid must 
 be lingering near ; and she distrusted herself so much 
 that it was a positive terror to think of meeting him 
 again. She felt as though, if she only caught a 
 sight of him, the glitter of his uniform, or heard his 
 well-known voice in only a distant syllable of talk, 
 her heart would stop, 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 
 baby in her arms, as Nancy gave it to her after 
 putting on its out-of-door attire. 
 
 With it in her arms she was protected, and the 
 whole current of her thoughts was changed. The 
 infant was wailing and suffering with its teething, 
 and the mother's heart was so occupied in soothing 
 and consoling her moaning child, that the dangerous 
 quay-side and the bridge were passed almost be- 
 fore she was aware ; nor did she notice the eager 
 curiosity and respectful attention of those she met 
 who recognized her even through the heavy veil 
 which formed part of the draping mourning provided 
 for her by Hester and Coulson, in the first uncon- 
 scious days after her mother's death. 
 
 Though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 117 
 
 upon Philip's disappearance — warned possibly by 
 Kinraid's story against hasty decisions and judg- 
 ments in such times as those of war and general 
 disturbance — yet every one agreed that no more 
 pitiful fate could have befallen Philip's wife. 
 
 Marked out by her striking beauty as an object 
 of admiring interest even in those days when she 
 sate in girlhood's smiling peace by her mother at 
 the Market Cross — her father had lost his life in a 
 popular 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 of his townsmen — 
 Sylvia had married amongst them too, and her quiet 
 daily life was well known to them ; and now her 
 husband had been carried off from her side just on 
 the very day when she needed his comfort most. 
 
 For the general opinion was that Philip had been 
 "carried off" — in sea-port towns such occurrences 
 were not uncommon in those days — either by land- 
 crimps or water-crimps. 
 
 So Sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one 
 sorely afflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in 
 her faltering; walk to Jeremiah Foster's. 
 
 She had calculated her time so as to fall in with 
 him at his dinner hour, even though it obliged her to 
 go to his own house rather than to the bank where 
 
118 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 he and his brother spent all the business hours of 
 the day. 
 
 Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of 
 her walk and the weight of her baby, that all she 
 could do when the door was opened was 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 more firmly, and some one 
 was pressing a glass of wine against her lips. 
 
 ee No, sir, 1 cannot take it ; wine allays gives me 
 the headache ; if I might have just a drink o' water. 
 Thank you, ma'am " (to the respectable-looking old 
 servant), " I'm well enough now ; and perhaps, sir, I 
 might speak a word with you, for it's that I've 
 come for." 
 
 " It's a pity, Sylvia Hepburn, as thee didst not come 
 to me at the bank, 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, thou hast but to name 
 it, I am sure. Martha ! wilt thou relieve her of her 
 child while she comes with me into the parlour ? " 
 
 But the wilful little Bella stoutly refused to go to 
 any one, and Sylvia was not willing to part with her, 
 tired though she was. 
 
 So the baby was carried into the parlour, and 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 119 
 
 much of her after-life depended 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, by pulling out his great gold watch, 
 and letting the seal dangle before the child's eyes, 
 almost within reach of the child's eager little fingers. 
 
 " 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 the ice ; for he rightly 
 conjectured she had come to speak to him about 
 something connected with her husband. 
 
 Still Sylvia said nothing; she was choking down 
 tears and shyness, and unwillingness to take as confi- 
 dant a man of whom she knew so little, on such 
 slight ground (as she now felt it to be) as the little 
 kindly speech with which she had been dismissed 
 from that house the last time that she entered it. 
 
 "It's no use keeping you, sir," she broke out at 
 last. ee It's about Philip as I corned to speak. Do 
 yo' know anything whatsomever about him? He 
 niver had a chance o' saying anything, I know ; but 
 maybe he's written ? " 
 
 " Not a line, my poor young woman ! " said 
 J eremiah, hastily putting an end to that vain idea. 
 
120 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " Then he's either dead or gone away for iver," 
 she whispered. " I mun be both father and mother 
 to my child." 
 
 " Oh ! thee must not give it up/' replied he. 
 "Many a one is carried off to the wars, or to the 
 tenders o' men-o'-war ; and then they turn out to be 
 unfit for service, and are sent home. Philip will 
 come back before the year's out ; thee'lt see that." 
 
 "No; he'll nivef come back. And I'm not sure 
 as I should iver wish him to come back, if I could 
 but know what was gone with him. Yo' see, sir, 
 though I were sore set again him, I shouldn't like 
 harm to happen him." 
 
 " There is something behind all this that I do not 
 understand. Can thee tell me what it is ? " 
 
 (e I must, sir, if yo're to help me wi' your counsel ; 
 and I came up here to ask for it." 
 
 Another long pause, during which Jeremiah made 
 a feint of playing with the child, who danced and 
 shouted with tantalized impatience at not being able 
 to obtain possession of the seal, and at length stretched 
 out her soft round little arms to go to the owner 
 of the coveted possession. Surprise at this action 
 roused Sylvia, and she made some comment upon it. 
 
 " I niver knew her to go to any one afore. I hope 
 she'll not be troublesome to you, sir ? " 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 121 
 
 The old man, who had often longed for a child 
 of his own in days gone by, was highly pleased by 
 this mark of baby's confidence, and almost forgot, 
 in trying to strengthen her regard by all the winning 
 wiles in his power, how her poor mother was still 
 lingering over some painful story which she could 
 not bring herself to tell. 
 
 " I'm afeared of speaking wrong against any one, 
 sir. And mother were so fond o' Philip ; but he kept 
 something from me as would ha' made me a different 
 woman, and some one else, happen, a different man. 
 I were troth-plighted wi' Kinraid the specksioneer, 
 him that was cousin to the Corneys o' Moss Brow, 
 and corned back lieutenant i' t' navy last Tuesday 
 three weeks, after ivery one had thought him dead 
 and gone these three years." 
 
 She paused. 
 
 " Well ? " said John with interest ; although his 
 attention appeared to be divided between the mother's 
 story and the eager playfulness 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 her story. 
 
122 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " And he niver told me a word on it, not when 
 he saw me like to break my 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' the truth. It would ha' been a great comfort, sir, 
 only to have had his message if I'd niver ha' been to 
 see him again. But Philip niver let on to any one, 
 as I iver heared on, that he'd seen Charley that morn- 
 ing as t' press-gang took him. Yo' know about 
 father's death, and how friendless mother and me was 
 left ? and so I married him ; for he 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 very tender and good to her, for sure." 
 
 Again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by 
 one or two deep sighs. 
 
 " 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 led here, like, else I 
 would ha' died wi' it all within my teeth. Yo'll 
 promise, sir ? " 
 
 Jeremiah Foster looked in her face, and seeing the 
 wistful, eager look, he was touched almost against his 
 judgment into giving the promise required; she 
 went on, 
 
 "Upon a Tuesday morning, three weeks ago, I 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 123 
 
 think, tho' for t' matter o' time it might ha' been 
 three years, Kinraid came home ; came back for to 
 claim me as his wife, and I were wed to Philip ! I 
 met him i' t' road at first; and I couldn't tell him 
 there. He followed me into t' house — Philip's house, 
 sir, behind t' shop — and somehow I told him all, how I 
 were a wedded wife to another. Then he up and said 
 I had a false heart — me false, sir, as had eaten my 
 daily bread in bitterness, and had wept t' nights 
 through, all for sorrow and 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 
 believe it, and I called Philip, and he came, and a' 
 that Charley had said were true ; and yet I were 
 Philip's wife ! So I took a mighty oath, and I said as 
 I would niver hold Philip to be my lawful husband 
 again, nor iver forgive him for t' evil he had wrought 
 us, but hold him as a stranger and one who had done 
 me a heavy wrong." 
 
 She stopped speaking ; her story seemed to 
 her to end there. But her listener 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. 
 
124 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " 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 that I were dead, and to think 
 on what would come on my child if I died; and 
 Philip came in softly, and I made as if I were asleep; 
 and that's t' very last as I've iver seen or heard of 
 him." 
 
 Jeremiah Foster groaned as she ended her story. 
 Then he pulled himself up, and said in a cheerful tone 
 of voice, 
 
 ee He'll come back, Sylvia Hepburn. He'll think 
 better of it : never fear ! " 
 
 " I fear his coming back ! " said she. " That's 
 what I'm feared on ; I would wish as I knew on his 
 well doing i' some other place ; but him and me can 
 niver live together again." 
 
 " Nay," pleaded Jeremiah. " Thee art sorry for 
 what thee said ; thee were sore put about, or thee 
 would not have said it." 
 
 He was trying to be a peace-maker and to heal 
 over conjugal differences ; but he did not go deep 
 enough. 
 
 " I'm not sorry," said she, slowly. cs I were too 
 deeply wronged to be e put about ; ' that would go off 
 wi' a night's sleep. It's only the thought of mother 
 (she's dead and happy, and knows nought of all this, 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 125 
 
 I trust) that comes between me and hating Philip. 
 I'm not sorry for what I said." 
 
 Jeremiah had never met with any one so frank and 
 undisguised in expressions of wrong feeling, and he 
 scarcely knew what to say. 
 
 He looked extremely grieved, and not a little 
 shocked. So pretty and delicate a young creature to 
 use such strong relentless language ! 
 
 She seemed to read his thoughts, for she made 
 answer to them. 
 
 " I daresay you think I'm very wicked, sir, not to 
 be sorry. Perhaps I am. I can't think o' that for 
 remembering how I have suffered ; and he knew how 
 miserable I was, and might ha' cleared my misery 
 away wi' a word ; and he held his peace, and now it's 
 too late ! I'm sick o' men and their cruel, deceitful 
 ways. I wish that I were dead." 
 
 She was crying before she had ended this speech, 
 and seeing her tears, the child began to cry too, 
 stretching out its little arms to go back to its mother. 
 The hard stony look on her face melted away into 
 the softest* tenderest love as she clasped the little 
 one to her, 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 
 
126 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 her pretty way with her baby showed him that she 
 had a heart of flesh within her. 
 
 "Poor little one ! " said he, "thy mother had need 
 love thee, for she's deprived thee of thy father's love. 
 Thou art half-way to being an orphan ; yet I cannot 
 call thee one of the fatherless to whom God will be 
 a father. Thou art a desolate babe, thou mayst well 
 cry ; thine earthly parents have forsaken thee, and 
 I know not if the Lord will 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 have 
 not forsaken her ! Oh, sir ! those are awful say- 
 ings." 
 
 " Thee hast sworn never to forgive thy husband, 
 nor to live with him again. Dost thee know that 
 by the law of the land, he may claim his child ; and 
 then thou will have to forsake it or to be forsworn ? 
 Poor little maiden ! " continued he, once more luring 
 the baby to him with the temptation of the watch 
 and chain. 
 
 Sylvia thought for awhile 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 ! " 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 127 
 
 " It was. I could not 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 had been both 
 cruel and base in his treatment of her? And yet 
 she recoiled from the application of such hard terms 
 by another to Philip, by a cool-judging and in- 
 different person, as she esteemed Jeremiah to be. 
 From some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, she 
 began to defend him, or at least to palliate the harsh 
 judgment which she herself had been the first to 
 pronounce. 
 
 ee He were so tender to mother ; she were dearly 
 fond on him ; he niver spared ought he could do for 
 her, else I would niver ha' married him." 
 
 " 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 changing her ground, " to leave me to think 
 as Charley were dead, when he knowed all t' time 
 he were alive." 
 
 " It was. It was a self-seeking lie ; putting thee 
 to pain to get his own ends. And the end of it has 
 been that he is driven forth like Cain." 
 
128 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " I niver told him to go, sir." 
 
 66 But thy words sent him forth, Sylvia." 
 
 " I cannot unsay them, sir ; and I believe as I 
 should say them again." 
 
 But she said this as one who rather hopes for a 
 contradiction. 
 
 All Jeremiah replied, however, was, ee Poor 
 wee child!" in a pitiful tone, addressed to the 
 baby. 
 
 Sylvia's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 w Oh, sir, I'll do anything as iver you can tell me 
 for her. That's what I came for t' ask ye. I know 
 I must not stay there, and Philip gone away ; and I 
 don't know what to do: and I'll do aught, only I 
 must keep her with 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 yo've given me yo'r word, sir ! " exclaimed 
 she. 
 
 cc I have given thee my word never to tell any 
 one of what has passed between thee and thy hus- 
 band, but I must take counsel with my brother as 
 to what is to be done with thee and thy child, now 
 that thy husband has left the shop." 
 
MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS. 
 
 129 
 
 This was said so gravely as almost to be a re- 
 proach, and he got up, as a sign that the interview 
 was ended. 
 
 He gave the baby back to its mother ; but not 
 without a solemn blessing, so solemn that to Sylvia's 
 superstitious and excited mind, 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 shine upon thee ! " 
 
 All the way down the hill-side, Sylvia kept 
 kissing the child, and whispering to its unconscious 
 ears, — 
 
 (£ I will love thee for both, my treasure, I will. 
 I will hap thee round with my love, so that thou 
 shall never need a father's." 
 
 YOL. in. 
 
 48 
 
130 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 Hester had been prevented by her mother's indis- 
 position from taking Philip's letter to the Fosters, 
 to hold a consultation with them over its contents. 
 
 Alice Rose was slowly failing, and the long days 
 which she had to spend alone told much upon her 
 spirits, and consequently upon her health. 
 
 All this came out in the conversation which ensued 
 after reading Hepburn's letter in the little parlour at 
 the bank on the day after Sylvia had had her con- 
 fidential interview with Jeremiah Foster. 
 
 He was a true man of honour, and never so much 
 as alluded to her visit to him ; but what she had 
 then told him influenced him very much in the 
 formation of the project which he proposed to his 
 brother and Hester. 
 
 He recommended her remaining where she was, 
 living still in the house behind the shop ; for he 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 131 
 
 thought within himself that she might have 
 exaggerated the effect of her words upon Philip ; 
 that, after all, it might have been some cause totally 
 disconnected with them, which had blotted out her 
 husband's place among the men of Monkshaven ; and 
 that it would be so much easier for both to resume 
 their natural relations, both towards each other and 
 towards the world, if Sylvia remained where her 
 husband had left her — in an expectant attitude, so to 
 speak. 
 
 Jeremiah Foster questioned Hester straitly about 
 .her letter: whether she had made known its con- 
 tents to any one. No, not to any one. Neither 
 to her mother nor to William Coulson? No, to 
 neither. 
 
 She looked at him as she replied to his inquiries, 
 and he looked at her, each wondering if the other 
 could be in the least aware that a conjugal quarrel 
 might be at the root of the dilemma in which 
 they were placed by Hepburn's disappearance. 
 
 But neither Hester, who had witnessed the] mis- 
 understanding between the husband and wife on the 
 evening before the morning on whichJPhilip went 
 away, nor Jeremiah Foster, who had learnt from 
 Sylvia the true reason of her husband's disappearance, 
 gave the slightest reason to the other to think that 
 
 48—2 
 
132 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 they each supposed they had a clue to the reason 
 of Hepburn's sudden departure. 
 
 What Jeremiah Foster, after a night's conside- 
 ration, had to propose was this : that Hester and her 
 mother should come and occupy the house in the 
 market place, conjointly with Sylvia and her child. 
 Hester's interest in the shop was by this time 
 acknowledged. Jeremiah had made over to her so 
 much of his share in the business, that she had a 
 right to be considered as a kind of partner ; and she 
 had long been the superintendent of that department 
 of goods which were exclusively devoted to women. 
 So her daily presence was requisite for more reasons 
 than one. 
 
 Yet her mother's health and spirits were such as to 
 render it unadvisable that the old woman should be 
 too much left alone ; and Sylvia's devotion to her 
 own mother seemed to point her out as the very 
 person who could be a gentle and tender companion 
 to Alice Rose during those hours when her own 
 daughter would necessarily be engaged in the shop. 
 
 So many desirable objects seemed to be gained by 
 this removal of Alice : an occupation was provided 
 for Sylvia, which would detain her in the place 
 where her husband had left her, and where (Jeremiah 
 Foster fairly expected in spite of his letter) he was 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 133 
 
 likely to come back to find her ; and Alice Hose, the 
 early love of one of the brothers, the old friend of 
 the other, would be well cared for, and under her 
 daughter's immediate supervision during the whole of 
 the time that she was occupied in the shop. 
 
 Philip's share of the business, augmented by the 
 money which he had put in from the legacy of 
 his old Cumberland uncle, would bring in profits 
 enough to support Sylvia and her child in ease 
 and comfort until that time, which they all antici- 
 pated, when he should return from his mysterious 
 wandering — mysterious, whether his going forth had 
 been voluntary or involuntary. 
 
 Thus far was settled ; and Jeremiah Foster went to 
 tell Sylvia of the plan. 
 
 She was too much a child, too entirely unac- 
 customed to any independence of action, to do any- 
 thing but leave herself in his hands. Her very con- 
 fession, made to him the day before, when she sought 
 his counsel, seemed to place her at his disposal. 
 Otherwise, she had had notions of the possibility of a 
 free country life once more — how provided for and 
 arranged she hardly knew ; but Haytersbank was to 
 let, and Kester disengaged, and it had just seemed 
 possible that she might have to return to her early 
 home, and to her old life. She knew that it would 
 
134 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 take much money to stock the farm again, and that 
 her hands were tied from much useful activity by the 
 love and care she owed to her baby. But still, 
 somehow, she hoped and she fancied, till Jeremiah 
 Foster's measured words and carefully-arranged plan 
 made her silently relinquish her green, breezy 
 vision. 
 
 Hester, too, had her own private rebellion — 
 hushed into submission by her gentle piety. If 
 Sylvia had been able to make Philip happy, Hester 
 could have felt lovingly and almost gratefully towards 
 her ; but Sylvia had failed in this. 
 
 Philip had been made unhappy, and was driven 
 forth a wanderer into the wide world — never to come 
 back ! And his last words to Hester, the postscript of 
 his letter, containing the very pith of it, was to ask 
 her to take charge and care of the wife whose want 
 of love towards him had uprooted him from the place 
 where he was valued and honoured. 
 
 It cost Hester many a struggle and many a self- 
 reproach before she could make herself feel what she 
 saw all along — that in everything Philip treated her 
 like a sister. But even a sister might well be 
 indignant if she saw her brother's love disregarded 
 and slighted, and his life embittered by the thought- 
 less conduct of a wife ! Still Hester fought against 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 135 
 
 herself, and for Philip's sake she sought to see the 
 
 good in Sylvia, and she strove to love her as well as 
 
 to take care of her. 
 
 With the baby, of course, the case was different. 
 
 Without thought, or struggle, or reason, every one 
 
 loved the little girl. Coulson and his buxom wife, 
 
 who were childless, were never weary of making 
 
 much of her. Hester's happiest hours were spent 
 
 with that little child. Jeremiah Foster almost looked 
 
 » 
 
 upon her as his own from the day when she honoured 
 him by yielding to the temptation of the chain and 
 seal, and coming to his knee ; not a customer to the 
 shop but knew the smiling child's sad history, and 
 many a country-woman would save a rosy-cheeked 
 apple from out her store that autumn to bring it on 
 next market-day for " Philip Hepburn's baby, as had 
 lost its father, bless it." 
 
 Even stern Alice Rose was graciously inclined 
 towards the little Bella ; and though her idea of 
 the number of the elect was growing narrower and 
 narrower every day, she would have been loth to 
 exclude the innocent little child, that stroked her 
 wrinkled cheeks so softly every night in return for 
 her blessing, from the^ few that should be saved. 
 Nay, for the child's sake, she relented towards the 
 mother ; and strove to have Sylvia rescued from the 
 
136 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 many cast-aways with fervent prayer, or, as she 
 phrased it, " wrestling with the Lord." 
 
 Alice had a sort of instinct that the little child, 
 so tenderly loved by, so fondly loving, the mother 
 whose ewe-lamb she was, could not be even in 
 heaven without yearning for the creature she had 
 loved best on earth; and the old woman believed 
 that this was the principal reason for her prayers 
 for Sylvia ; but unconsciously to herself, Alice Rose 
 was touched by the filial attentions she constantly 
 received from the young mother, whom she believed 
 to be foredoomed to condemnation. 
 
 Sylvia rarely went to church or chapel, nor did 
 she read her Bible; for though she spoke little of 
 her ignorance, and would fain, for her child's sake, 
 have remedied it now it was too late, she had lost 
 what little fluency of reading she had ever had, and 
 could only make out her words with much spelling 
 and difficulty. So the taking her Bible in hand 
 would have been a mere form ; though of this Alice 
 Rose knew nothing. 
 
 No one knew much of what was passing in Sylvia ; 
 she did not know herself. Sometimes in the nights 
 she would waken, crying, with a terrible sense of 
 desolation ; every one who loved her, or whom she 
 had loved, had vanished out of her life ; every one 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 137 
 
 but her child, who lay in her arms, warm and 
 soft. 
 
 But then J eremiah Foster's words came upon her ; 
 words that she had taken for cursing at the time; 
 and she would so gladly have had some clue by 
 which to penetrate the darkness of the unknown 
 region from whence both blessing and cursing came, 
 and to know if she had indeed done something which 
 should cause her sin to be visited on that soft, sweet, 
 innocent darling. 
 
 If any one would teach her to read ! If 
 any one would explain to her the hard words 
 she heard in church or chapel, so that she might 
 find out the meaning of sin and godliness ! — words 
 that had only passed over the surface of her 
 mind till now ! For her child's sake she should 
 like to do the will of God, if she only knew what 
 that was, and how to be worked out in her daily life. 
 
 But there was no one she dared confess her 
 ignorance to and ask information from. Jeremiah 
 Foster had spoken as if her child, sweet little merry 
 Bella, with a loving word and a kiss for every 
 one, was to suffer heavily for the just and true 
 words her wronged and indignant mother had 
 spoken. Alice always spoke as if there were no 
 hope for her ; and blamed her, nevertheless, for not 
 
138 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 using the means of grace that it was not in her 
 power to avail herself of. 
 
 And Hester, that Sylvia would fain have loved for 
 her uniform gentleness and patience with all around 
 her, seemed so cold in her unruffled and undemon- 
 strative behaviour ; and moreover, Sylvia felt that 
 Hester blamed her perpetual silence regarding Philip's 
 absence without knowing how bitter a cause Sylvia 
 had for casting him off. 
 
 The only person who seemed to have pity upon 
 her was Kester ; and his pity was shown in looks 
 rather than words; for when he came to see her, 
 which he did from time to time, by a kind of mutual 
 tacit consent, they spoke but little of former days. 
 
 He was still lodging with his sister, widow Moore, 
 working at odd jobs, some of which took him into 
 the country for weeks at a time. But on his re- 
 turns to Monkshaven he was sure to come and see 
 her and the little Bella; indeed, when his employ- 
 ment was in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
 town, he never allowed a week to pass away without 
 a visit. 
 
 There was not much conversation between him 
 and Sylvia at such times. They skimmed over the 
 surface of the small events in which both took an 
 interest; only now and then a sudden glance, a 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 139 
 
 checked speech, told each that there were deeps not 
 forgotten, although they were never mentioned. 
 
 Twice Sylvia — below her breath — had asked 
 Kester, just as she was holding the door open for 
 his departure, if anything had ever been heard of 
 Kinraid since his one night's visit to Monkshaven : 
 each time (and there was an interval of some 
 months between the inquiries) the answer had been 
 simply, no. 
 
 To no one else would Sylvia ever have named his 
 nanie. But indeed she had not the chance, had she 
 wished it ever so much, of asking any questions 
 about him from any one likely to know. The 
 Corneys had left Moss Brow at Martinmas, and 
 gone many miles away towards Horncastle. Bessie 
 Corney, it is true, was married and left behind in the 
 neighbourhood ; but with her Sylvia had never been 
 intimate ; and what girlish friendship there might 
 have been between them had cooled very much at 
 the time of Kinraid's supposed death three years 
 before. 
 
 One day before Christmas in this year, 1798, 
 Sylvia was called into the shop by Coulson, who, 
 with his assistant, was busy undoing the bales of 
 winter goods supplied to them from the West Riding, 
 and other places. He was looking at a fine Irish 
 
140 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 poplin dress-piece when Sylvia answered to his 
 call. 
 
 " Here ! do you know this again ? " asked he, in 
 the cheerful tone of one sure of giving pleasure. 
 
 " ISTo ! have I ever seen it afore ? " 
 
 " Not this, but one for all the world like it." 
 
 She did not rouse up to much interest, but looked 
 at it as if trying to recollect where she could have 
 seen its like. 
 
 " My missus had one on at the party at John 
 Foster's last March, and you admired it a deal, 
 And Philip, he thought o' nothing but how he could 
 get you just such another, and he set a vast o' folk 
 agait for to meet wi' its marrow ; and what he did 
 just the very day afore he went away so mysterious 
 was to write through Dawson Brothers, of Wakefield, 
 to Dublin, and order that one should be woven for 
 you. Jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give 
 him t' exact colour." 
 
 Sylvia did not say anything but that it was very 
 pretty, in a low voice, and then she quickly left the 
 shop, much to Coulson's displeasure. 
 
 All the afternoon she was unusually quiet and 
 depressed. 
 
 Alice Rose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched 
 her with keen eyes. 
 
BEEEAVEMENT. 
 
 141 
 
 At length, after one of Sylvia's deep, unconscious 
 sighs, the old woman spoke : 
 
 "It's religion as must comfort thee, child, as it's 
 done many a one afore thee." 
 
 (( How ? " said Sylvia, looking up, startled to find 
 herself an object of notice. 
 
 " How ? " (The answer was not quite so ready as 
 the precept had been.) " Read thy Bible, and thou 
 wilt learn." 
 
 " But I cannot read," said Sylvia, too desperate 
 any longer to conceal her ignorance. 
 
 "Not read! and thee Philip's wife as was such 
 a great scholar ! Of a surety the ways o' this life 
 are crooked! There was our Hester, as can read 
 as well as any minister, and Philip passes over her 
 to go and choose a young lass as cannot read her 
 Bible." 
 
 " Was Philip and Hester " 
 
 Sylvia paused, for though a new curiosity had 
 dawned upon her, she did not know how to word 
 her question. 
 
 " Many a time and oft have I seen Hester take 
 comfort in her Bible when Philip was following 
 after thee. She knew where to go for consola- 
 tion." 
 
 " I would fain read," said Sylvia, humbly, " if any 
 
142 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 one would learn me; for perhaps it might do me 
 good ; I'm noan so happy." 
 
 Her eyes, as she looked up at Alice's stern coun- 
 tenance, were full of tears. 
 
 The old woman saw it, and was touched, although 
 she did not immediately show her sympathy. But 
 she took her own time, and made no reply. 
 
 The next day, however, she hade Sylvia come 
 to her, and then and there, as if her pupil had heen 
 a little child, she began to teach Sylvia to read the 
 first chapter of Genesis ; for all other reading but 
 the Scriptures was as vanity to her, and she would 
 not condescend to the weakness of home books. 
 Sylvia was now, as ever, slow at book-learning ; 
 but she was meek and desirous to be taught, and 
 her willingness in this respect pleased Alice, and 
 drew her singularly towards one who, from being 
 a pupil, might become a convert. 
 
 All this time Sylvia never lost the curiosity that 
 had been excited by the few words that Alice had 
 let drop about Hester and Philip, and by degrees 
 she approached the subject again, and had the idea 
 then started confirmed by Alice, who had no scruple 
 in using the past experience of her own, of her daugh- 
 ter's, or of any one's life, as an instrument to prove 
 the vanity of setting the heart on anything earthly. 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 143 
 
 This knowledge, unsuspected before, sank deep into 
 Sylvia's thoughts, and gave her a strange interest in 
 Hester — poor Hester, whose life she had so crossed 
 and blighted, even by the very blighting of her own. 
 She gave Hester her own former passionate feelings 
 for Kinraid, and wondered how she herself should 
 have felt towards any one who had come between her 
 and him, and wiled his love away. When she re- 
 membered Hester's unfailing sweetness and kindness 
 towards herself from the very first, she could better 
 bear the comparative coldness of her present behaviour. 
 
 She tried, indeed, hard to win back the favour she 
 had lost; but the very means she took were blunders, 
 and only made it seem to her as if she could never 
 again do right in Hester's eyes. 
 
 For instance, she begged her to accept and wear 
 the pretty poplin gown which had been Philip's 
 especial choice ; feeling within herself as if she should 
 never wish to put it on, and as if the best thing she 
 could do with it was to offer it to Hester. But 
 Hester rejected the proffered gift with as much hard- 
 ness of manner as she was capable of assuming ; and 
 Sylvia had to carry it upstairs and lay it by for the 
 little daughter, who, Hester said, might perhaps learn 
 to value things that her father had given especial 
 thought to. 
 
144 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 Yet Sylvia went on trying to win Hester to like 
 her once more ; it was one of her great labours, and 
 learning to read from Hester's mother was another. 
 
 Alice, indeed, in her solemn way, was becoming 
 quite fond of Sylvia ; if she could not read or write, 
 she had a deftness and gentleness of motion, a capa- 
 city for the household matters which fell into her 
 department, that had a great effect on the old woman, 
 and for her dear mother's sake Sylvia had a stock of 
 patient love ready in her heart for all the aged and 
 infirm that fell in her way. She never thought 
 of seeking them out, as she knew that Hester did ; 
 but then she looked up to Hester as some one very 
 remarkable for her goodness. If only she could have 
 liked her ! 
 
 Hester tried to do all she could for Sylvia ; Philip 
 had told her to take care of his wife and child ; but 
 she had the conviction that Sylvia had so materially 
 failed in her duties as to have made her husband an 
 exile from his home — a penniless wanderer, wifeless 
 and childless, in some strange country, whose very 
 aspect was friendless, while the cause of all lived on 
 in the comfortable home that he had placed her in, 
 wanting for nothing — an object of interest and regard 
 to many friends — with a lovely little child to give her 
 joy for the present, and hope for the future ; while he, 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 145 
 
 the poor outcast, might even lie dead by the wayside. 
 How could Hester love Sylvia ? 
 
 Yet they were frequent companions that ensuing 
 spring. Hester was not well ; and the doctors said 
 that the constant occupation in the shop was too much 
 for her, and that she must, for a time at least, take 
 daily walks into the country. 
 
 Sylvia used to beg to accompany her : she and the 
 little girl often went with Hester up the valley of the 
 river to some of the nestling farms that were hidden 
 in the more sheltered nooks — for Hester was bidden 
 to drink milk warm from the cow ; and to go into the 
 familiar haunts about a farm was one of the few things 
 in which Sylvia seemed to take much pleasure. She 
 would let little Bella toddle about while Hester sate 
 and rested: and she herself would beg to milk the 
 cow destined to give the invalid her draught. 
 
 One May evening the three had been out on some 
 such expedition ; the country side still looked grey 
 and bare, though the leaves were showing on the 
 willow and blackthorn and sloe, and by the tinkling 
 runnels, making hidden music along the copse side, the 
 pale delicate primrose buds were showing amid their 
 fresh, green, crinkled leaves. The larks had been 
 singing all the afternoon, but were now dropping down 
 into their nests in the pasture fields ; the air had just 
 
 vol. in. 49 
 
146 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 the sharpness in it which goes along with a cloudless 
 evening sky at that time of the year. 
 
 But Hester walked homewards slowly and lan- 
 guidly, speaking no word. Sylvia noticed this at first 
 without venturing to speak, for Hester was one who 
 disliked having her ailments noticed. But after a 
 while Hester stood still in a sort of weary dreamy 
 abstraction ; and Sylvia said to her, 
 
 ce I'm afeared yo're sadly tired. Maybe we've been 
 too far." 
 
 Hester almost started. 
 
 C{ No ! " said she, " it's only my headache which 
 is worse to-night. It has been bad all day ; but since 
 I came out it has felt just as if there were great guns 
 booming, till I could almost pray them to be quiet. I 
 am so weary of the sound." 
 
 She stepped out quickly towards home after she 
 had said this, as if she wished for neither pity nor 
 comment on what she had said. 
 
147 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE EECOGNITION. 
 
 Far away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, 
 great guns were booming on that 7th of May, 1799. 
 
 The Mediterranean came up with a long roar on 
 a beach glittering white with snowy sand, and the 
 fragments of innumerable sea-shells, delicate and 
 shining as porcelain. Looking at that shore from the 
 -sea, a long ridge of upland ground, beginning from an 
 inland depth, stretched far away into the ocean on the 
 right, till it ended in a great mountainous bluff, 
 crowned with the white buildings of a convent, 
 sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its 
 base. 
 
 In the clear eastern air, the different characters of 
 the foliage that clothed the sides of that sea-washed 
 mountain might be discerned from a long distance by 
 the naked eye ; the silver grey of the olive-trees near 
 its summit ; the heavy green and bossy forms of the 
 sycamores lower down ; broken here and there by a 
 
 49—2 
 
148 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 solitary terebinth or ilex tree, of a deeper green and 
 a wider spread ; till the eye fell below on the maritime 
 plain, edged with the white sea-board and the sandy 
 hillocks ; with here and there feathery palm-trees, 
 either isolated or in groups—motionless and distinct 
 against the hot purple air. 
 
 Look again : a little to the left on the sea-shore 
 there are the white walls of a fortified town, glittering 
 in sunlight, or black in shadow. 
 
 The fortifications themselves run out into the sea, 
 forming a port and a haven against the wild Levan- 
 tine storms ; and a lighthouse rises out of the waves 
 to guide mariners into safety. 
 
 Beyond this walled city, and far away to the left 
 still, there is the same wide plain shut in by the 
 distant rising ground, till the upland circuit comes 
 closing in to the north, and the great white rocks 
 meet the deep tideless ocean with its intensity of blue 
 colour. 
 
 Above, the sky is literally purple with heat ; and 
 the pitiless light smites the gazer's weary eye as it 
 comes back from the white shore. JSTor does the 
 plain country in that land offer the refuge and rest of 
 our own soft -green. The limestone rock underlies 
 the vegetation, and gives a glittering, ashen hue to all 
 the bare patches, and even to the cultivated parts 
 
THE RECOGNITION. 
 
 149 
 
 which are burnt up early in the year. In spring 
 time alone does the country look rich and fruitful ; 
 then the corn-fields of the plain show their capability 
 of bearing, " some fifty, some an hundred fold ; " 
 down by the brook Kishon, flowing not far from 
 the base of the mountainous promontory to the south, 
 there grow the broad green fig-trees, cool and fresh 
 to look upon ; the orchards are full of glossy-leaved 
 cherry-trees; the tall amaryllis puts forth crimson 
 and yellow glories in the fields, rivalling the pomp of 
 King Solomon ; the daisies and the hyacinths spread 
 their myriad flowers ; the anemones, scarlet as blood, 
 run hither and thither over the ground like dazzling 
 flames of fire. 
 
 A spicy odour lingers in the heated air it comes 
 from the multitude of aromatic flowers that blossom 
 in the early spring. Later on they will have withered 
 and faded, and the corn will have been gathered, and 
 the deep green of the eastern foliage will have 
 assumed a kind of grey-bleached tint. 
 
 Even now in May, the hot sparkle of the ever- 
 lasting sea, the terribly clear outline of all objects, 
 whether near or distant, the fierce sun right over- 
 head, the dazzling air around, were inexpressibly 
 wearying to the English eyes that kept their skilled 
 watch, day and night, on the strongly-fortified coast 
 
150 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 town that lay out a little to the northward of where 
 the British ships were anchored. 
 
 They had kept up a flanking fire for many days in 
 aid of those besieged in St. Jean d'Acre; and at 
 intervals had listened, impatient, to the sound of the 
 heavy siege guns, or the sharper rattle of the French 
 musketry. 
 
 In the morning, on the 7th of May, a man at the 
 masthead of the Tigre sang out that he saw ships in 
 the offing ; and in reply to the signal that was hastily 
 run up, he saw the distant vessels hoist friendly flags. 
 That May morning was a busy time. The besieged 
 Turks took heart of grace ; the French outside, under 
 the command of their great general, made hasty pre- 
 parations for a more vigorous assault than all the 
 many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone 
 before (for the siege was now at its fifty-first day), 
 in hopes of carrying the town by storm before the 
 reinforcement coming by sea could arrive; and Sir 
 Sidney Smith, aware of Buonaparte's desperate 
 intention, ordered all the men, both sailors and 
 marines, that could be spared from the necessity of 
 keeping up a continual flanking fire from the ships 
 upon the French, to land, and assist the Turks and 
 the British forces already there in the defence of the 
 old historic city. 
 
THE RECOGNITION. 
 
 151 
 
 Lieutenant Kinraid, who had shared his captain's 
 daring adventure off the coast of France three years 
 before, who had been a prisoner with him and 
 Westley Wright, in the Temple at Paris, and had 
 escaped with them, and, through Sir Sidney's earnest 
 recommendation, been promoted from being a warrant 
 officer to the rank of lieutenant, received on this day 
 the honour from his admiral of being appointed to an 
 especial post of danger. His heart was like a war- 
 horse, and said, Ha, ha! as the. boat bounded over 
 the waves that was to land him under the ancient 
 niachicolated walls where the Crusaders made their 
 last stand in the Holy Land. Not that Kinraid 
 knew, or cared one jot about those gallant knights 
 of old: all he knew was, that the French, under 
 Boney, were trying to take the town from the Turks, 
 and that his admiral said they must not, and so they 
 should not. 
 
 He and his men landed on that sandy shore, and 
 entered the town by the water-port gate; he was 
 singing to himself his own country song, — 
 
 " Weel may the keel row, the keel row," &c., 
 
 and his men, with sailors' aptitude for music, caught 
 up the air, and joined in the burden with inarticulate 
 sounds. 
 
152 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 So, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow 
 streets of Acre, hemmed in on either side by the 
 white walls of Turkish houses, with small grated 
 openings high up, above all chance of peeping in- 
 trusion. 
 
 Here and there they met an ample-robed and 
 turbaned Turk, going along with as much haste as 
 his stately self-possession would allow. But the 
 majority of the male inhabitants were gathered to- 
 gether to defend the breach, where the French guns 
 thundered out far above the heads of the sailors. 
 
 They went along none the less merrily for the 
 sound to Djezzar Pacha's garden, where the old 
 Turk sate on his carpet, beneath the shade of a 
 great terebinth tree, listening to the interpreter, who 
 made known to him the meaning of the eager 
 speeches of Sir Sidney Smith and the colonel of the 
 marines. 
 
 As soon as the admiral saw the gallant sailors of 
 H.M.S. Tigre, he interrupted the council of war 
 without much ceremony, and going to Kinraid, he 
 despatched them, as before arranged, to the North 
 Eavelin, showing them the way with rapid, clear 
 directions. 
 
 Out of respect to him, they had kept silent while 
 in the strange, desolate garden ; but once again in 
 
THE RECOGNITION. 
 
 153 
 
 the streets, the old Newcastle song rose up again till 
 the men were, perforce, silenced by the haste with 
 which they went to the post of danger. 
 
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon. For many 
 a day these very men had been swearing at the 
 terrific heat at this hour — even when at sea, fanned 
 by the soft breeze; but now, in the midst of hot 
 smoke, with former carnage tainting the air, and with 
 the rush and whizz of death perpetually whistling in 
 their ears, they were uncomplaining and light- 
 hearted. Many an old joke, and some new ones, 
 came, brave and hearty, on their cheerful voices, even 
 though the speaker was veiled from sight in great 
 clouds of smoke, cloven only by the bright flames of 
 death. 
 
 A sudden message came: as many of the crew 
 of the Tigre as were under Lieutenant Kinraid's 
 command were to go down to the Mole, to assist the 
 new reinforcements (seen by the sailor from the 
 masthead at day-dawn), under command of Hassan 
 Bey, to land at the Mole, where Sir Sidney then 
 was. 
 
 Off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as 
 ever, though two of their number lay silent for ever 
 at the North Ravelin — silenced in that one little half- 
 hour. And one went along with the rest, swearing 
 
154 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 lustily at his ill-luck in having his right arm broken^ 
 but ready to do good business with his left. 
 
 They helped the Turkish troops to land more with 
 good-will than tenderness ; and then, led by Sir 
 Sidney, they went under the shelter of English 
 guns to the fatal breach, so often assailed, so gallantly 
 defended^ but never so fiercely contested as on this 
 burning afternoon. The ruins of the massive wall 
 that here had been broken down by the French, were 
 used by them as stepping stones to get on a level 
 with the besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones 
 which the latter hurled down; nay, even the dead 
 bodies of the morning's comrades were made into 
 ghastly stairs. 
 
 When Djezzar Pacha heard that the British sailors 
 were defending the breach, headed by Sir Sidney 
 Smith, he left his station in the palace garden, 
 gathered up his robes in haste, and hurried to the 
 breach ; where, with his own hands, and with right 
 hearty good-will, he pulled the sailors down from the 
 post of danger, saying that if he lost his English 
 friends he lost all ! 
 
 But little recked the crew of the Tigre of the one 
 old man — Pacha or otherwise — who tried to hold 
 them back from the fight ; they were up and at the 
 French assailants clambering over the breach in an 
 
THE EECOGNITION. 
 
 155 
 
 instant; and so they went on, as if it were some 
 game at play instead of a deadly combat, until 
 Kinraid and his men were called off by Sir Sidney, 
 as the reinforcement of Turkish troops under Hassan 
 Bey were now sufficient for the defence of that old 
 breach in the walls, which was no longer the prin- 
 cipal object of the French attack ; for the besiegers 
 had made a new and more formidable breach by 
 their incessant fire, knocking down whole streets of 
 the city wails. 
 
 ee Fight your best, Kinraid ! " said Sir Sidney ; 
 u for there's Boney on yonder hill looking at you." 
 
 And sure enough, on a rising ground, called 
 Richard Coeur de Lion's Mount, there was a half- 
 circle of French generals, on horseback, all defer- 
 entially attending to the motions, and apparently to 
 the words, of a little man in their centre ; at whose 
 bidding the aide-de-camp galloped swift with messages 
 to the more distant French camp. 
 
 The two ravelins which Kinraid and his men had 
 to occupy, for the purpose of sending a flanking fire 
 upon the enemy, were not ten yards from that 
 enemy's van. 
 
 But at length there was a sudden rush of the 
 French to that part of the wall where they imagined 
 they could enter unopposed. 
 
156 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 Surprised at this movement, Kinraid ventured out 
 of the shelter of the ravelin to ascertain the cause ; 
 he, safe and untouched during that long afternoon of 
 carnage, fell now, under a stray musket shot, and 
 lay helpless and exposed upon the ground undiscerned 
 by his men, who were recalled to help in the hot 
 reception which had been planned for the French; 
 who, descending the city walls into the Pacha's 
 garden, were attacked with sabre and dagger, and 
 lay headless corpses under the flowering rose-bushes, 
 and by the fountain side. 
 
 Kinraid lay beyond the ravelins, many yards out- 
 side the city walls. 
 
 He was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken 
 his leg. Dead bodies of Frenchmen lay strewn 
 around him ; no Englishman had ventured out so 
 far, 
 
 All the wounded men that he could see were 
 French ; and many of these, furious with pain, 
 gnashed their teeth at him, and cursed him aloud, 
 till he thought that his best course was to assume the 
 semblance of death ; for some among these men 
 were still capable of dragging themselves up to him, 
 and by concentrating all their failing energies into 
 Gne blow, put him to a speedy end. 
 
 The outlying pickets of the French army were 
 
THE RECOGNITION. 
 
 157 
 
 within easy rifle shot ; and his uniform, although less 
 conspicuous in colour than that of the marines, by 
 whose sides he had been fighting, would make him a 
 sure mark if he so much as moved his arm. Yet 
 how he longed to turn, if ever so slightly, so that the 
 cruel slanting sun might not beat full into his aching 
 eyes. Fever, too, was coming upon him ; the pain 
 in his leg was every moment becoming more severe ; 
 the terrible thirst of the wounded, added to the heat 
 and fatigue of the day, made his lips and tongue feel 
 baked and dry, and his whole throat seemed parched 
 and wooden. Thoughts of other days, of cool 
 Greenland seas, where ice abounded, of grassy English 
 homes, began to make the past more real than the 
 present. 
 
 With a great effort he brought his wandering senses 
 back ; he knew where he was now, and could weigh 
 the chances of his life, which were but small : the 
 unwonted tears came to his eyes as he thought of the 
 newly-made wife in her English home, who might 
 never know how he died thinking of her. 
 
 Suddenly he saw a party of English marines 
 advance, under shelter of the ravelin, to pick up the 
 wounded, and bear them within the walls for surgical 
 help. They were so near he could see their faces, 
 could hear them speak ; yet he durst not make any 
 
158 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 sign to them when he lay within range of the French 
 picket's fire. 
 
 For one moment he conld not resist raising his 
 head, to give himself a chance for life; before the 
 unclean creatures that infest a camp, came round in 
 the darkness of the night to strip and insult the 
 dead bodies, and to put to death such as had yet the 
 breath of life within them. But the setting sun came 
 full into his face, and he saw nothing of what he 
 longed to see. 
 
 He fell back in despair ; he lay there to die. 
 
 That strong clear sunbeam had wrought his salva- 
 tion. 
 
 He had been recognized as men are recognized 
 when they stand in the red glare of a house 
 on fire ; the same despair of help, of hopeless fare- 
 well to life, stamped on their faces in blood-red 
 light. 
 
 One man left his fellows, and came running for- 
 wards, forwards in among the enemy's wounded, 
 within range of their guns : he bent down over 
 Kinraid ; he seemed to understand without a word, he 
 lifted him up, carrying him like a child ; and with the 
 vehement energy that is more from the force of will 
 than the strength of body, he bore him back to 
 within the shelter of the ravelin — not without many 
 
THE RECOGNITION. 
 
 159 
 
 shots being aimed at them, one of which hit Kinraid 
 in the fleshy part of his arm. 
 
 Kinraid was racked with agony from his dangling 
 broken leg, and his very life seemed leaving him ; 
 yet he remembered afterwards how the marine re- 
 called his fellows, and how, in the pause before they 
 returned, his face became like one formerly known to 
 the sick senses of Kinraid ; yet it was too like a dream, 
 too utterly improbable to be real. 
 
 Yet the few words this man said, as he stood 
 breathless and alone by the fainting Kinraid, fitted 
 in well with the belief conjured up by his personal 
 appearance. He panted out, — 
 
 ec I niver thought you would ha' kept true to her ! " 
 
 And then the others came up ; and while they were 
 making a sling of their belts, Kinraid fainted utterly 
 away, and the next time that he was fully conscious, 
 he was lying in his berth in the Tigre, with the 
 ship surgeon setting his leg. After that he was too 
 feverish for several days to collect his senses. When 
 he could first remember, and form a judgment upon 
 his recollections, he called the man especially charged 
 to attend upon him, and bade him go and make 
 inquiry in every possible manner for a marine named 
 Philip Hepburn, and, when he was found, to entreat 
 him to come and see Kinraid. 
 
160 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 The sailor was away the greater part of the day, 
 and returned unsuccessful in his search ; he had been 
 from ship to ship, hither and thither ; he had ques- 
 tioned all the marines he had met with, no one knew 
 anything of any Philip Hepburn. 
 
 Kinraid passed a miserably feverish night, and 
 when the doctor exclaimed the next morning at his 
 retrogression, he told him, with some irritation, of the 
 ill-success of his servant; he accused the man of 
 stupidity, and wished fervently that he were able to 
 go himself. 
 
 Partly to soothe him, the doctor promised that he 
 would undertake the search for Hepburn, and he 
 engaged faithfully to follow all Kinraid's eager direc- 
 tions ; not to be satisfied with men's careless words, 
 but to look over muster-rolls and ships' books. 
 
 He too brought the same answer, however unwill- 
 ingly given. 
 
 He had set out upon the search so confident of 
 success, that he felt doubly discomfited by failure. 
 However, he had persuaded himself that the lieu- 
 tenant had been partially delirious from the effects 
 of his wound, and the power of the sun shining down 
 just where he lay. There had, indeed, been slight 
 symptoms of Kinraid's having received a sun-stroke ; 
 and the doctor dwelt largely on these in his endeavour 
 
THE KECOGNITION. 
 
 161 
 
 to persuade his patient that it was his imagination 
 which had indued a stranger with the lineaments 
 of some former friend. 
 
 Kinraid threw his arms out of bed with impatience 
 at all this plausible talk, which was even more 
 irritating than the fact that Hepburn was still un- 
 discovered. 
 
 " The man was no friend of mine ; I was like to 
 have killed him when last I saw him. He was a 
 shopkeeper in a country town in England. I had 
 seen little enough of him ; but enough to make me 
 able to swear to him anywhere, even in a marine's 
 uniform, and in this sweltering country." 
 
 " Faces once seen, especially in excitement, are 
 apt to return upon the memory in cases of fever," 
 quoth the doctor, sententiously. 
 
 The attendant sailor, reinstalled to some compla- 
 cency by the failure of another in the search in which 
 he himself had been unsuccessful, now put in his 
 explanation. 
 
 " Maybe it was a spirit. It's not the first time 
 as I've heard of a spirit coming upon earth to save 
 a man's life in time of need. My father had an 
 uncle, a west country grazier. He was a coming 
 over Dartmoor in Devonshire one moonlight night 
 with a power of money as he had got for his sheep 
 
 vol. in. 50 
 
162 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 at the fair. It were stowed in leather bags under; 
 the seat of the gig. It were a rough kind of road, 
 both as a road and in character, for there had been 
 many robberies there of late, and the great rocks 
 stood convenient for hiding-places. All at once 
 father's uncle feels as if some one were sitting be- 
 side him on the empty seat ; and he turns his head 
 and looks, and there he sees his brother sitting — his 
 brother as had been dead twelve year and more. So 
 he turns his head back again, eyes right, and never 
 says a word, but wonders what it all means. All of 
 a sudden two fellows come out upon the white road 
 from some black shadow, and they look, and they let 
 the gig go past, father's uncle driving hard, I'll warrant 
 him. But for all that he heard one say to t' other, 
 
 * By , there's two of them ! ' Straight on he 
 
 drove faster than ever, till he saw the far lights 
 of some town or other. I forget its name, though 
 I've heard it many a time ; and then he drew a 
 long breath, and turned his head to look at his 
 brother, and ask him how he'd managed to come 
 out of his grave in Barum churchyard, and the seat 
 was as empty as it had been when he set out ; and 
 then he knew that it were a spirit come to help him 
 against the men who thought to rob him, and would 
 likely enough have murdered him." 
 
THE RECOGNITION. 
 
 163 
 
 Kinraid had kept quiet through this story. But 
 when the sailor began to draw the moral, and to 
 say, " And I think I may make bold to say, sir, as 
 the marine who carried you out of the Frenchy's gun 
 shot was just a spirit come to help you," he exclaimed 
 impatiently, swearing a great oath as he did so, ee It 
 was no spirit, I tell you; and I was in my full 
 senses. It was a man named Philip Hepburn. He 
 said words to me, or over me, as hone but himself 
 would have said. Yet we hated each other like 
 poison ; and I can't make out why he should be there 
 and putting himself in danger to save me. But so it 
 was ; and as you can't find him, let me hear no more 
 of your nonsense. It was him, and not my fancy, 
 doctor. It was flesh and blood, and not a spirit, Jack. 
 So get along with you, and leave me quiet." 
 
 All this time Stephen Freeman lay friendless, sick, 
 and shattered, on board the Theseus. 
 
 He had been about his duty close to some shells 
 that were placed on her deck ; a gay young midship- 
 man was thoughtlessly striving to get the fusee out of 
 one of these by a mallet and spike-nail that lay close 
 at hand ; and a fearful explosion ensued, in which the 
 poor marine, cleaning his bayonet near, was shock- 
 ingly burnt and disfigured, the very skin of all the 
 lower part of his face being utterly destroyed by 
 
 50—2 
 
164 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 gunpowder. They said it was a mercy that his eyes 
 were spared ; but he could hardly feel anything to be 
 a mercy, as he lay tossing in agony, burnt by the 
 explosion, wounded by splinters, and feeling that he 
 was disabled for life, if life itself were preserved. Of 
 all that suffered by that fearful accident (and they 
 were many) none was so forsaken, so hopeless, so 
 desolate, as the Philip Hepburn about whom such 
 anxious inquiries were being made at that very 
 time. 
 
165 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CONFIDENCES. 
 
 It was a little later on in that same summer that 
 Mrs. Brunton came to visit her sister Bessy. 
 
 Bessy was married to a tolerably well-to-do farmer 
 who lived at an almost equal distance between Monks- 
 haven and Hartswell ; but from old habit and con- 
 venience the latter was regarded as the Dawsons' 
 market-town ; so Bessy seldom or never saw her old 
 friends in Monkshaven. 
 
 But Mrs. Brunton was far too flourishing a person 
 not to speak out her wishes, and have her own way. 
 She had no notion, she said, of coming such a long 
 journey only to see Bessy and her husband, and not 
 to have a sight of her former acquaintances at Monks- 
 haven. She might have added that her new bonnet 
 and cloak would be as good as lost if it was not 
 displayed among those who, knowing her as Molly 
 Corney, and being less fortunate in matrimony than 
 
166 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 
 she was, would look upon it with wondering admira- 
 tion, if not with envy. 
 
 So one day Farmer Dawson's market cart deposited 
 Mrs. Brunton in all her bravery at the shop in the 
 market-place, over which Hepburn and Coulson's 
 names still flourished in joint partnership. 
 
 After a few words of brisk recognition to Coulson 
 and Hester, Mrs. Brunton passed on into the parlour 
 and greeted Sylvia with boisterous heartiness. 
 
 It was now four years and more since the friends 
 had met ; and each secretly wondered how they had 
 ever come to be friends. Sylvia had a country, raw, 
 spiritless look to Mrs. Brunton's eye ; Molly was loud 
 and talkative, and altogether distasteful to Sylvia, 
 trained in daily companionship with Hester to appre- 
 ciate soft slow speech, and grave thoughtful ways. 
 
 However, they kept up the forms of their old 
 friendship, though their hearts had drifted far apart. 
 They sat hand in hand while each looked at the other 
 with eyes inquisitive as to the changes which time had 
 made. Molly was the first to speak. 
 
 e£ Well, to be sure ! how thin and pale yo've grown, 
 Sylvia ! Matrimony hasn't agreed wi' you as well 
 as it's done wi' me. Brunton is allays saying (yo' 
 know what a man he is for his joke), that if he'd ha' 
 known how many yards o' silk I should ha' ta'en for 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 167 
 
 a gown, he'd ha' thought twice afore he'd ha' married 
 me. Why I've gained a matter of thirty pound of 
 flesh sin' I were married ! " 
 
 " Yo' do look brave and hearty ! " said Sylvia, 
 putting her sense of her companion's capacious size 
 and high colour into the prettiest words she could. 
 
 " Eh ! Sylvia ! but I know what it is," said Molly, 
 shaking her head. " It's just because of that husband 
 of thine as has gone and left thee ; thou's pining after 
 him, and he's not worth it. Brunton said, when he 
 heard of it — I mind he was smoking at the time, and 
 he took his pipe out of his mouth, and shook out the 
 ashes as grave as any judge — e The man,' says he, 
 *as can desert a wife like Sylvia Robson as was, 
 deserves hanging ! ' That's what he says ! Eh ! 
 Sylvia, but speaking o' hanging, I was so grieved for 
 yo' when I heard of yo'r poor father ! Such an end 
 for a decent man to come to ! Many a one came and 
 called on me o' purpose to hear all I could tell 'em 
 about him ! " 
 
 " Please don't speak on it ! " said Sylvia, trembling 
 all over. 
 
 (( Well, poor creature, I won't. It is hard on thee, 
 I grant. But to give t' devil his due, it were good 
 in Hepburn to marry thee, and so soon after there 
 was a' that talk about thy father. Many a man 
 
168 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 would lia' drawn back, choose however far they'd 
 gone. I'm noan so sure about Charley Kinraid. Eh, 
 Sylvia ! only think on his being alive after all ! I 
 doubt if our Bessy would ha' wed Frank Dawson if 
 she'd known as he wasn't drowned. But it's as well 
 she did, for Dawson's a man o' property, and has gotten 
 twelve cows in his cow-house, beside three right down 
 good horses ; and Kinraid were allays a fellow wi' 
 two strings to his bow. I've allays said, and do 
 maintain, that he went on pretty strong w 7 i' you, 
 Sylvie ; and I will say I think he cared more for you 
 than for our Bessy, though it were only yesterday at 
 e'en she were standing out that he liked her better 
 than you. Yo'll ha' heared on his grand marriage ? " 
 
 " No ! " said Sylvia, with eager painful cu- 
 riosity. 
 
 " No ! It was in all t' papers ! I wonder as yo' 
 didn't see it. Wait a minute ■! I cut it out o' t' 
 Gentlemaris Magazine, as Brunton bought o' purpose, 
 and put it in my pocket-book when I were a coming 
 here : I know I've got it somewhere." 
 
 She took out her smart crimson pocket-book, and 
 rummaged in the pocket until she produced a little 
 crumpled bit of printed paper, from which she read 
 aloud, 
 
 "On January the third, at St. Mary RedclifFe, 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 169 
 
 Bristol, Charles Kinraid, Esq., lieutenant Royal Navy, 
 to Miss Clarinda Jackson, with a fortune of 10,000/." 
 
 " There ! " said she, triumphantly, " it's something, 
 as Brunton says, to be cousin to that." 
 
 " Would yo' let me see it ? " said Sylvia, timidly. 
 
 Mrs. Brunton graciously consented ; and Sylvia 
 brought her newly acquired reading -knowledge, 
 hitherto principally exercised on the Old Testament, 
 to bear on these words. 
 
 There was nothing wonderful in them, nothing 
 that she might not have expected ; and yet the 
 surprise turned her giddy for a moment or two. She 
 never thought of seeing him again — never. But to 
 think of his caring for another woman as much as he 
 had done for her, nay, perhaps more ! 
 
 The idea was irresistibly forced upon her that 
 Philip would not have acted so : it would have taken 
 long years before he could have been induced to put 
 another on the throne she had once occupied. For the 
 first time in her life she seemed to recognize the real 
 nature of Philip's love. 
 
 But she said nothing but " Thank you " when she 
 gave the scrap of paper back to Molly Brunton. 
 And the latter continued giving her information 
 about Kinraid's marriage. 
 
 "He were down in t' west, Plymouth or some- 
 
170 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 where, when he met with her. She's no father; 
 he'd been in t' sugar-baking business ; but from 
 what Kinraid wrote to old Turner, the uncle who 
 brought him up at Cullercoats, she's had t' best 
 of educations : can play on t' instrument and 
 dance t' shawl dance ; and Kinraid had all her 
 money settled on her, though she said she'd rather 
 give it all to him, which I must say, being his 
 cousin, was very pretty on her. He's left her now, 
 having to go off in t' Tigre, as is his ship, to t' Medi- 
 terranean seas ; and she's written to offer to come and 
 see old Turner, and make friends with his relations, 
 and Brunton is going to give me a crimson satin as 
 soon as we know for certain when she's coming, for 
 we're sure to be asked out to Culler coats." 
 
 ee I wonder if she's very pretty ? " asked Sylvia, 
 faintly, in the first pause in this torrent of talk. 
 
 ee Oh ! she's a perfect beauty, as I understand. 
 There was a traveller as came to our shop as had been 
 at York, and knew some of her cousins there, that 
 were in t' grocery line — her mother was a York lady 
 • — and they said she was just a picture of a woman, and 
 ever so many gentlemen had been wanting to marry 
 her, but she just waited for Charley Kinraid, yo' see ! " 
 
 " Well, I hope they'll be happy ; I'm sure I do ! " 
 said Sylvia. 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 171 
 
 " That's just luck. Some folks is happy in mar- 
 riage, and some isn't. It's just luck, and there's 
 no forecasting it. Men is such unaccountable 
 animals, there's no prophesying upon 'em. Who'd 
 ha' thought of yo'r husband, him as was so slow 
 and sure — steady Philip, as we lasses used to call 
 him — -making a moonlight flitting, and leaving yo' to 
 be a widow bewitched ! " 
 
 ee He didn't go at night," said Sylvia, taking the 
 words e£ moonlight flitting " in their literal sense. 
 
 " No ! Well, I only said e moonlight flitting ' just 
 because it come uppermost and I knowed no better. 
 Tell me all about it, Sylvie, for I can't make it 
 out from what Bessy says. Had he and yo' had 
 words ? — but in course yo' had." 
 
 At this moment Hester came into the room ; and 
 Sylvia joyfully availed herself of the pretext for 
 breaking off the conversation that had reached 
 this painful and awkward point. She detained 
 Hester in the room for fear lest Mrs. Brunton should 
 repeat her inquiry as to how it all happened that 
 Philip had gone away ; but the presence of a third 
 person seemed as though it would be but little 
 restraint upon the inquisitive Molly, who repeatedly 
 bore down upon the same questions till she nearly 
 drove Sylvia distracted, between her astonishment 
 
172 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 at the news of Kinraid's marriage ; her wish to be 
 alone and quiet, so as to realize the full meaning of 
 that piece of intelligence ; her desire to retain Hester 
 in the conversation; her efforts to prevent Molly's 
 recurrence to the circumstances of Philip's disappear- 
 ance, and the longing — more vehement every minute 
 — for her visitor to go away and leave her in peace. 
 She became so disturbed with all these thoughts and 
 feelings that she hardly knew what she was saying, 
 and assented or dissented to speeches without there 
 being either any reason or truth in her w r ords. 
 
 Mrs. Brunton had arranged to remain with Sylvia 
 while the horse rested, and had no compunction about 
 the length of her visit. She expected to be asked to 
 tea, as Sylvia found out at last, and this she felt 
 would be the worst of all, as Alice Rose was not one to 
 tolerate the coarse, careless talk of such a woman 
 as Mrs. Brunton without uplifting her voice in 
 many a testimony against it. Syrvia sate holding 
 Hester's gown tight in order to prevent her leaving 
 the room, and trying to arrange her little plans 
 so that too much discordance should not arise to 
 the surface. Just then the door opened, and little 
 Bella came in from the kitchen in all the pretty, 
 sturdy dignity of two years old, Alice following 
 her with careful steps, and protecting, outstretched 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 173 
 
 arms, a slow smile softening the sternness of her grave 
 face ; for the child was the unconscious darling of 
 the household, and all eyes softened into love as they 
 looked on her. She made straight for her mother 
 with something grasped in her little dimpled fist ; 
 but half way across the room she seemed to have 
 become suddenly aw T are of the presence of a stranger, 
 and she stopped short, fixing her serious eyes full 
 on Mrs. Brunton, as if to take in her appearance, 
 nay, as if to penetrate down into her very real 
 self, and then, stretching out her disengaged hand, 
 the baby spoke out the words that had been hovering 
 about her mother's lips for an hour past. 
 
 ee Do away ! " said Bella, decisively. 
 
 * 6 "What a perfect love," said Mrs. Brunton, half 
 in real admiration, half in patronage. As she spoke, 
 she got up and went towards the child, as if to take 
 her up. 
 
 " Do away ! do away ! " cried Bella, in shrill 
 affright at this movement. 
 
 u Don't," said Sylvia, " she is shy ; she doesn't 
 know strangers." 
 
 But Mrs. Brunton had grasped the struggling, 
 kicking child by this time, and her reward for this 
 was a vehement little slap in the face. 
 
 "Yo' naughty little spoilt thing!" said she, 
 
174 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 setting Bella down in a hurry. " Yo' deserve a 
 good whipping, yo' do, and if yo' were mine yo' 
 should have it." 
 
 Sylvia had no need to stand up for the baby who 
 had run to her arms, and was soothing herself 
 with sobbing on her mother's breast ; for Alice 
 took up the defence. 
 
 " The child said, as plain as words could say, c go 
 away,' and if thou wouldst follow thine own will 
 instead of heeding her wish, thou must put up with 
 the wilfulness of the old Adam, of which it seems to 
 me thee hast getten thy share at thirty as well as 
 little Bella at two." 
 
 (e Thirty ! " said Mrs. Brunton, now fairly affronted. 
 " Thirty ! why, Sylvia, yo' know I'm but two years 
 older than yo' ;• speak to that woman and tell 
 her that I'm only four and twenty. Thirty, in- 
 deed!" 
 
 (( Molly's but four and twenty," said Sylvia, in a 
 pacificatory tone. 
 
 " Whether she be twenty, or thirty, or forty, is 
 alike to me," said Alice. " I meant no harm. I 
 meant but for t' say as her angry words to the child 
 bespoke her to be one of the foolish. I know not 
 who she is, nor what her age may be." 
 
 m She's an old friend of mine," said Sylvia. 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 175 
 
 " She's Mrs. Brunton now, but when I knowed her 
 she was Molly Corney." 
 
 ee Ay ! and yo' were Sylvia Robson, and as bonny 
 and light-hearted a lass as any in all t' Riding, 
 though now yo're a poor widow bewitched, left 
 wi' a child as I mustn't speak a word about, and 
 living with folk as talk about t' old Adam as if he 
 wasn't dead and done with long ago ! It's a change, 
 Sylvia, as makes my heart ache for ye, to think on 
 them old days when yo' were so thought on yo' 
 might have had any man, as Brunton often says ; it 
 were a great mistake as yo' ever took up wi' yon 
 man as has run away. But seven year '11 soon be 
 past from the time he went off, and yo' only be six 
 and twenty then ; and there'll be a chance of a better 
 husband for yo' after all, so keep up yo'r heart, 
 Sylvia." 
 
 Molly Brunton had put as much venom as she 
 knew how into this speech, meaning it as a vengeful 
 payment for the supposition of her being thirty, even 
 more than for the reproof for her angry words about 
 the child. She thought that Alice Rose must be either 
 mother or aunt to Philip, from the serious cast of 
 countenance that was remarkable in both ; and she 
 rather exulted in the allusion to a happier second 
 marriage for Sylvia, with which she had concluded 
 
176 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 her speech. It roused Alice, however, as effectually 
 as if she had been really a blood relation to Philip ; 
 but for a different reason. She was not slow to detect 
 the intentional offensiveness to herself in what had 
 been said ; she was indignant at Sylvia for suffering 
 the words spoken to pass unanswered ; but in truth 
 they were too much in keeping with Molly Brunton's 
 character to make as much impression on Sylvia as 
 they did on a stranger ; and besides, she felt as if the 
 less reply Molly received, the less likely would it be 
 that she would go on in the same strain. So she 
 coaxed and chattered to her child and behaved like a 
 little coward in trying to draw out of the conver- 
 sation, while at the same time listening attentively. 
 
 "As for Sylvia Hepburn as was Sylvia Robson, 
 she knows my mind," said Alice, in grim indig- 
 nation. 6{ She's humbling herself now, I trust and 
 pray, but she was light-minded and full of vanity 
 when Philip married her, and it might ha' been a 
 lift towards her salvation in one way ; but it 
 pleased the Lord to work in a different way, and 
 she must wear her sackcloth and ashes in patience. 
 So I'll say naught more about her. But for him as 
 is absent, as thee hast spoken on so lightly and 
 reproachfully, I'd have thee to know he were one of 
 a different kind to any thee ever knew, I reckon. 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 177 
 
 If he were led away by a pretty face to slight one as 
 was fitter for him, and who had loved him as the 
 apple of her eye, it's him as is suffering for it, inas- 
 much as he is a wanderer from his home, and an 
 outcast from wife and child." 
 
 To the surprise of all, Molly's words of reply were 
 cut short even when they were on her lips by Sylvia. 
 Pale, fire-eyed, and excited, with Philip's child on one 
 arm, and the other stretched out, she said, — 
 
 " None can tell — none know. No one shall speak 
 a judgment betwixt Philip and me. He acted cruel 
 and wrong by me. But I have said my words ; to 
 him hissel', and I'm noan going to make any plaint 
 to others ; only them as knows should judge. And 
 it's not fitting, it's not," (almost sobbing), " to go 
 on with talk like this afore me." 
 
 The two. — for Hester, who was aware that her 
 presence had only been desired by Sylvia as a check 
 to an unpleasant tete-a-tete conversation, had slipped 
 back to her business as soon as her mother came 
 in, — the two looked with surprise at Sylvia; her 
 words, her whole manner belonged to a phase of her 
 character which seldom came uppermost, and which 
 had not been perceived by either of them before. 
 
 Alice Rose, though astonished, rather approved of 
 Sylvia's speech; it showed that she had more 
 
 VOL. in. 51 
 
178 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 
 serious thought and feeling on the subject than the 
 old woman had given her credit for ; her general 
 silence on the subject of her husband had led Alice 
 to think that she was too childish to have received 
 any deep impression from the event. Molly Brunton 
 gave vent to her opinion on Sylvia's speech in the 
 following words : — 
 
 " Hoighty-toighty. That tells tales, lass. If yo' 
 treated steady Philip to many such looks and speeches 
 as yo've given us now, it's easy to see why he took 
 hisself off. Why, Sylvia, I never saw it in yo' 
 when yo' was a girl, — yo're grown into a regular 
 little vixen, there where yo' stand ! " 
 
 Indeed she did look defiant, with the swift colour 
 flushing her cheeks to crimson on its return, and the 
 fire in her eyes not yet died away. But at Molly's 
 jesting words she sank back into her usual look and 
 manner, only saying quietly, — 
 
 (c It's for noan to say whether I'm vixen or not, as 
 doesn't know the past things as is buried in my 
 heart. But I cannot hold them as my friends as go 
 on talking on either my husband or me before my 
 very face. What he was I know, and what I am, I 
 reckon he knows. And now I'll go hurry tea, for 
 yo'll be needing it, Molly ! " 
 
 The last clause of this speech was meant to make 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 179 
 
 peace ; but Molly was in twenty minds as to whether 
 she should accept the olive-branch or not. Her 
 temper, however, was of that obtuse kind which 
 is not easily ruffled ; her mind, stagnant in itself, 
 enjoyed excitement from without; and her appetite 
 was invariably good, so she stayed in spite of the 
 inevitable tete-a-tete with Alice. The latter, how- 
 ever, refused to be drawn into conversation again; 
 replying to Mrs. Brunton's speeches with a curt yes 
 or no, when, indeed, she replied at all. 
 
 When all were gathered at tea, Sylvia was quite 
 calm again; rather paler than usual, and very 
 attentive and subdued in her behaviour to Alice ; 
 she would evidently fain have been silent, but as 
 Molly washer own especial guest, that could not be, 
 so all her endeavours went towards steering the con- 
 versation away from any awkward points. But each 
 of the four, let alone little Bella, was thankful when 
 the market-cart drew up at the shop door, that was 
 to take Mrs. Brunton back to her sister's house. 
 
 When she w 7 as fairly off, Alice Rose opened her 
 mouth in strong condemnation ; winding up with — 
 
 66 And if aught in my words gave thee cause 
 for offence, Sylvia, it was because my heart rose 
 within me at the kind of talk thee and she had been 
 having about Philip ; and her evil and light-minded 
 
 51~2 
 
180 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 counsel to thee about waiting seven years, and then 
 wedding another." 
 
 Hard as these words may seem when repeated, 
 there was something of a nearer approach to an 
 apology in Mrs. Eose's manner than Sylvia had ever 
 seen in it before. She was silent for a few moments, 
 then she said, 
 
 " I ha' often thought of telling yo' and Hester, 
 special-like when yo've been so kind to my little 
 Bella, that Philip and me could never come to- 
 gether again, no, not if he came home this very 
 night " 
 
 She would have gone on speaking, but Hester 
 interrupted her with a low cry of dismay. 
 
 Alice said, # 
 
 "Hush thee, Hester. It's no business o' thine. 
 Sylvia Hepburn, thou'rt speaking like a silly child." 
 
 " No. I'm speaking like a woman ; like a woman 
 who finds out she's been cheated by men as she 
 trusted; and who has no help for it. I'm noan 
 going to say any more about it. It's me as has been 
 wronged, and as has to bear it : only I thought I'd 
 tell yo' both this much, that yo' might know some- 
 what why he went away, and how I said my last 
 word about it." 
 
 So indeed it seemed. To all questions andremon- 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 181 
 
 strances from Alice, Sylvia turned a deaf ear. She 
 averted her face from Hester's sad wistful looks ; 
 only when they were parting for the night, at the 
 top of the little staircase, she turned, and putting her 
 arms round Hester's neck she laid her head on her 
 neck, and whispered, 
 
 ee Poor Hester — poor, poor, Hester ! if yo' and he 
 had but been married together what a deal o' sorrow 
 would ha' been spared to us all ! " 
 
 Hester pushed her away as she finished these 
 words ; looked searchingly into her face, her eyes, 
 and then followed Sylvia into her room, where Bella 
 lay sleeping ; shut the door, and almost knelt down 
 at Sylvia's feet, clasping her, and hiding her face in 
 the folds of the other's gown. 
 
 cc Sylvia, Sylvia," she murmured, (e some one has 
 told you — I thought no one knew — it's no sin — it's 
 done away with now — indeed it is — it was long ago — 
 before yo' were married ; but I cannot forget. It 
 was a shame, perhaps, to have thought on it ever, 
 when he never thought o' me ; bat I never believed 
 as any one could ha' found it out. I'm just fit to 
 sink into t' ground, what with my sorrow and my 
 shame." 
 
 Hester was stopped by her own rising sobs, imme- 
 diately she was in Sylvia's arms Sylvia was sitting 
 
162 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 on the ground holding her, and soothing her with 
 caresses and broken words. 
 
 Cf I'm allays saying t' wrong things," said she. 
 (e It seems as if I were all upset to-day ; and indeed I 
 am ! " she added, alluding to the news of Kinraid's 
 marriage she had yet to think upon. 
 
 " But it was not yo', Hester ; it were nothing yo 5 
 ever said, or did, or looked, for that matter. It were 
 your mother as let it out." 
 
 ee Oh mother ! mother ; " wailed out Hester ; " I 
 never thought as any one but God would ha' known 
 that I had ever for a day thought on his being more 
 to me than a brother." 
 
 Sylvia made no reply, only went on stroking 
 Hester's smooth brown hair, off which her cap had 
 fallen. Sylvia was thinking how strange life was, 
 and how love seemed to go all at cross purposes; and 
 was losing herself in bewilderment at the mystery of 
 the world ; she was almost startled when Hester rose 
 up, and taking Sylvia's hands in both of hers, and 
 looking solemnly at her, said, 
 
 " Sylvia, you know what has been my trouble and 
 my shame, and I'm sure yo' are sorry for me — for I 
 will humble myself to yo', and own that for many 
 months before yo' were married, I felt my disap- 
 pointment like a heavy burden laid on me by day 
 
CONFIDENCES. 
 
 183 
 
 and by night; but now I ask yo' if yo' have any 
 pity for me for what I went through, or if yo' have 
 any love for me because of your dead mother's love 
 for me, or because of any fellowship, or daily bread- 
 liness between us two, — put the hard thoughts of 
 Philip away from out yo'r heart ; he may ha' done 
 yo' wrong, anyway yo' think that he has ; I never 
 knew him ought but kind and good ; but if he comes 
 back from wherever in the wide world he is gone to 
 (and there's not a night but I pray God to keep him, 
 and send him safe back), yo' put away the memory 
 of past injury, and forgive it all, and be, what yo' 
 can be, Sylvia, if yo've a mind to, just the kind, 
 good wife he ought to have." 
 
 " I cannot ; yo' know nothing about it, Hester." 
 
 " Tell me then," pleaded Hester. 
 
 " No ! " said Sylvia, after a moment's hesitation ; 
 "I'd do a deal for yo', I would, but I daren't for- 
 give Philip, even if I could; I took a great oath 
 against him. Ay, you may look shocked at me, 
 but it's him as yo' ought for to be shocked at if yo' 
 knew all. I said I'd never forgive him ; I shall keep 
 to my word." 
 
 " I think I'd better pray for his death then," said 
 Hester, hopelessly, and almost bitterly, loosing her 
 hold of Sylvia's hands. 
 
184 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " If it weren't for baby there, 1 could think as it 
 were my death as would be best. Them as one 
 thinks the most on, forgets one soonest." 
 
 It was Kinnaird to whom she was alluding; but 
 Hester did not understand her; and after standing 
 for a moment in silence, she kissed her, and left her 
 for the night. 
 
185 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER. 
 
 After this agitation, and these partial confidences, 
 no more was said on the subject of Philip for many 
 weeks. They avoided even the slightest allusion to 
 him ; and none of them knew how seldom or how 
 often he might be present in the minds of the others. 
 
 One day the little Bella was unusually fractious 
 with some slight childish indisposition, and Sylvia 
 was obliged to have recourse to a never-failing piece 
 of amusement; namely, to take the child into the 
 shop, when the number of new, bright-coloured 
 articles was sure to beguile the little girl out of her 
 fretfulness. She was walking along the high terrace 
 of the counter, kept steady by her mother's hand, 
 when Mr. Dawson's market-cart once more stopped 
 before the door. But it was not Mrs. Brunton who 
 alighted now; it was a very smartly-dressed, very 
 pretty young lady, who put one dainty foot before the 
 other with care, as if descending from such a primi- 
 
186 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 tive vehicle were a new occurrence in her life. Then 
 she looked up at the names above the shop door, and 
 after ascertaining that this was indeed the place she 
 desired to find., she came in blushing. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Hepburn at home?" she asked of Hester, 
 whose position in the shop brought her forwards to 
 receive the customers, while Sylvia drew Bella out of 
 sight behind some great bales of red flannel. 
 
 " Can I see her ? " the sweet, south-country voice 
 went on, still addressing Hester. Sylvia heard the 
 inquiry, and came forwards, with a little rustic awk- 
 wardness, feeling both shy and curious. 
 
 66 Will you please walk this way, ma'am ? " said 
 she, leading her visitor back into her own dominion 
 of the parlour, and leaving Bella to Hester's willing 
 care. 
 
 " You don't know me ! " said the pretty young 
 lady, joyously. " But I think you knew my husband. 
 I am Mrs. Kinraid ! " 
 
 A sob of surprise rose to Sylvia's lips — she choked 
 it down, however, and tried to conceal any emotion 
 she might feel in placing a chair for her visitor, 
 and trying to make her feel welcome, although, if 
 the truth must be told, Sylvia was wondering all 
 the time why her visitor came, and how soon she 
 would go. 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGEK. 
 
 187 
 
 " You knew Captain Kinraid, did you not ? " said 
 the young lady, with innocent inquiry ; to which 
 Sylvia's lips formed the answer, u Yes/' but no clear 
 sound issued therefrom. 
 
 ee But I know your husband knew the captain ; is 
 he at home yet ? Can I speak to him ? I do so want 
 to see him." 
 
 Sylvia was utterly bewildered ; Mrs. Kinraid, this 
 pretty, joyous, prosperous little bird of a woman, 
 Philip, Charley's wife, what could they have in 
 common? what could they know of each other? 
 All she could say in answer to Mrs. Kinraid's eager 
 questions, and still more eager looks, was, that her 
 husband was from home, had been long from home : 
 she did not know where he was, she did not know 
 when he would come back. * 
 
 Mrs. Kinraid's face fell a little, partly from her 
 own real disappointment, partly out of sympathy 
 with the hopeless, indifferent tone of Sylvia's replies. 
 
 " Mrs. Dawson told me he had gone away rather 
 suddenly a year ago, but I thought he might be 
 come home by now. I am expecting the captain early 
 next month. Oh ! how I should have liked to see 
 Mr. Hepburn, and to thank him for saving the 
 captain's life ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Sylvia, stirred out 
 
188 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 of all assumed indifference. " The captain ! is that " 
 (not " Charley," she could* not use that familiar 
 name to the pretty young wife before her) "your 
 husband ? " 
 
 " Yes, you knew him, did not you ? when he used 
 to be staying with Mr. Corney, his uncle? " 
 
 (i Yes, I knew him ; but I don't understand. Will 
 you please to tell me all about it, ma'am?" said 
 Sylvia, faintly. 
 
 " I thought your husband would have told you all 
 about it ; I hardly know where to begin. You know 
 my husband is a sailor ? " 
 
 Sylvia nodded assent, listening greedily, her heart 
 beating thick all the time. 
 
 (( And he's now a Commander in the Royal Navy, 
 all earned by his own bravery ! Oh ! I am so proud 
 of him!" 
 
 So could Sylvia have been if she had been his 
 wife ; as it was, she thought how often she had felt 
 sure that he would be a great man some day. 
 
 " And he has been at the Siege of Acre. " 
 
 Sylvia looked perplexed at these strange words, 
 and Mrs. Kinraid caught the look. 
 
 "St. Jean d'Acre, you know — though it's fine 
 saying c you know,' when I did not know a bit about 
 it myself till the captain's ship was ordered there, 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER. 189 
 
 though I was the head girl at Miss Dobbin's in the 
 geography class — Acre is a seaport town, not far 
 from Jaffa, which is the modern name for Joppa, 
 where St. Paul went to long ago ; you've read of 
 that I'm sure, and Mount Carmel, where the prophet 
 Elijah was once, all in Palestine you know, only the 
 Turks have got it now ? " 
 
 " But I don't understand yet," said Sylvia, plain- 
 tively, " I daresay it's all very true about St. Paul, 
 but, please ma'am, will you tell me about your hus- 
 band and mine — have they met again ? " 
 
 " Yes, at Acre, I tell you," said Mrs. Kinraid, with 
 pretty petulance. 66 The Turks held the town, and 
 the French wanted to take it; and we, that is the 
 British Fleet, would not let them. So Sir Sidney 
 Smith, a commodore and a great friend of the 
 captain's, landed in order to fight the French ; and 
 the captain and many of the sailors landed with him ; 
 and it was burning hot ; and the poor captain was 
 wounded, and lay a-dying of pain and thirst within 
 the enemy's — that is the French — fire ; so that they 
 were ready to shoot any one of his own side who 
 came near him. They thought he was dead himself, 
 you see, as he was very near ; and would have been 
 too, if your husband had not come out of shelter, and 
 taken him up in his arms or on his back (I could not 
 
190 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 make out which), and carried him safe within the 
 walls." 
 
 "It couldn't have been Philip," said Sylvia, 
 dubiously. 
 
 " But it was. The captain says so ; and he's not 
 a man to be mistaken. I thought I had got his letter 
 with me, and I would have read you a part of it, but 
 I left it at Mrs. Dawson's in my desk ; and I can't 
 send it to you," blushing as she remembered certain 
 passages in which " the captain " wrote very much 
 like a lover, "or else I would. But you may be 
 quite sure it was your husband that ventured into 
 all that danger to save his old friend's life, or the 
 captain would not have said so." 
 
 6S But they were not — they were not — not to call 
 great friends." 
 
 ee I wish I had got the letter here ; I can't think 
 how I could be so stupid ; I think I can almost 
 remember the very words, though — I've read them 
 over so often. He says, 6 J ust as I gave up all hope, 
 I saw one Philip Hepburn, a man whom I had 
 known at Monkshaven, and whom I had some 
 reason to remember well,' (I am sure he says so — 
 6 remember well'), c he saw me too, and came at the 
 risk of his life to where I lay. I fully expected he 
 would be shot down ; and I shut my eyes not to see 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGEK, 191 
 
 the end of my last chance. The shot rained about 
 him, and I think he was hit ; but he took me up and 
 carried me under cover.' I am sure he says that, 
 I have read it over so often ; and he goes on and 
 says how he hunted for Mr. Hepburn all through the 
 ships, as soon as ever he could; but he could hear 
 nothing of him, either alive or dead. Don't go so 
 white for pity's sake," said she, suddenly startled by 
 Sylvia's blanching colour. se You see, because he 
 could not find him alive is no reason for giving him 
 up as dead ; because his name was not to be found 
 on any of the ships' books, so the captain thinks he 
 must have been known by a different name to his 
 real one. Only he says he should like to have seen 
 him to have thanked him ; and he says he would give 
 a deal to know what has become of him; and as 
 I was staying two days at Mrs. Dawson's, I told 
 them I must come over to Monkshaven, if only for 
 five minutes, just to hear if your good husband was 
 come home, and to shake his hands, that helped to 
 save my own dear captain." 
 
 <c I don't think it could have been Philip," reiterated 
 Sylvia. 
 
 " Why not ? " asked her visitor, e: you say you 
 don't know where he is ; why might not he have 
 been there where the captain says he was ? " 
 
192 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " But he wasn't a sailor, nor yet a soldier." 
 
 " Oh ! but he was. I think somewhere the captain 
 calls him a marine ; that's neither one nor the other, 
 but a little of both. He'll be coming home some day 
 soon ; and then you'll see ! " 
 
 Alice Rose came in at this minute, and Mrs. 
 Kinraid jumped to the conclusion that she was 
 Sylvia's mother, and in her overflowing gratitude 
 and friendliness to all the family of him who had 
 " saved the captain " she went forward, and shook 
 the old woman's hand in that pleasant confiding way 
 that wins all hearts. 
 
 " Here's your daughter, ma'am ! " said she to the 
 half astonished, half pleased Alice. " I'm Mrs. 
 Kinraid, the wife of the captain that used to be 
 in these parts, and I'm come to bring her news of 
 her husband, and she don't half believe me, though 
 it's all to his credit, I'm sure." 
 
 Alice looked so perplexed that Sylvia felt herself 
 bound to explain. 
 
 " She says he's either a soldier or a sailor, and 
 a long way off at some place named in t' Bible." 
 
 " Philip Hepburn led away to be a soldier ? " said 
 she, " who had once been a Quaker." 
 
 "Yes, and a very brave one too, and one that 
 it would do my heart good to look upon," exclaimed 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER. 
 
 193 
 
 Mrs. Kinraid. e£ He's been saving my husband's 
 life in the Holy Land, where Jerusalem is, you know." 
 
 (e Nay ! " said Alice, a little scornfully. " I can 
 forgive Sylvia for not being over keen to credit thy 
 news. Her man of peace becoming a man of war ; 
 and suffered to enter Jerusalem, which is a heavenly 
 and a typical city at this time ; while me, as is one 
 of the elect, is obliged to go on dwelling in Monks- 
 haven, just like any other body." 
 
 ei Nay, but," said Mrs. Kinraid, gently, seeing she 
 was touching on delicate ground, ts I did not say 
 he had gone to Jerusalem, but my husband saw 
 him in those parts, and he was doing his duty like 
 a brave, good man; ay, and more than his duty; 
 and, you may take my word for it, he'll be at home 
 some day soon, and all I beg is that you'll let 
 the captain and me know, for I'm sure if we can, 
 we'll both come and pay our respects to him. And 
 I'm very glad I've seen you," said she, rising to go, 
 and putting out her hand to shake that of Sylvia ; 
 " for, besides being Hepburn's wife, I'm pretty sure 
 I've heard the captain speak of you ; and if ever you 
 come to Bristol I hope you'll come and see us on 
 Clifton Downs." 
 
 She went away, leaving Sylvia almost stunned 
 by the new ideas presented to her. Philip a soldier ! 
 
 vol. in. 52 
 
194 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 Philip in a battle, risking his life. Most strange 
 of all, Charley and Philip once more meeting 
 together, not as rivals or as foes, hut as saviour 
 and saved ! Add to all this the conviction, strength- 
 ened by every word that happy, loving wife had 
 uttered, that Kinraid's old, passionate love for herself 
 had faded away and vanished utterly : its very 
 existence apparently blotted out of his memory. 
 She had torn up her love for him by the roots, 
 but she felt as if she could never forget that it had 
 been. 
 
 Hester brought back Bella to her mother. She 
 had not liked to interrupt the conversation with 
 the strange lady before; and now she found her 
 mother in an obvious state of excitement ; Sylvia 
 quieter than usual. 
 
 s( That was Kinraid's wife, Hester ! Him that 
 was the specksioneer as made such a noise about 
 the place at the time of Darley's death. He is 
 now a captain— a navy captain, according to what 
 she says. And she would fain have us believe that 
 Philip is abiding in all manner of Scripture places ; 
 places as has been long done away with, but the 
 similitude whereof is in the heavens, where the 
 elect shall one day see them. And she says Philip 
 is there, and a soldier, and that he saved her 
 
AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER. 
 
 195 
 
 husband's life, and is coming home soon. I wonder 
 what John and Jeremiah will say to his soldiering 
 then ? It '11 noan be to their taste, I'm thinking." 
 
 This was all very unintelligible to Hester, and 
 she would dearly have liked to question Sylvia ; 
 but Sylvia sate a little apart, with Bella on her 
 knee, her cheek resting on her child's golden curls, 
 and her eyes fixed and almost trance-like, as if 
 she were seeing things not present. 
 
 So Hester had to be content with asking her 
 mother as many elucidatory questions as she could ; 
 and after all did not gain a very clear idea of what 
 had really been said by Mrs. Kinraid, as her mother 
 was more full of the apparent injustice of Philip's 
 being allowed the privilege of treading on holy 
 ground — if, indeed, that holy ground existed on this 
 side heaven, which she was inclined to dispute — than 
 to confine herself to the repetition of words, or narra- 
 tion of facts. 
 
 Suddenly Sylvia roused herself to a sense of 
 Hester's deep interest and balked inquiries, and she 
 went over the ground rapidly. 
 
 " Yo'r mother says right — she is his wife. And 
 he's away fighting; and got too near t' French 
 as was shooting and firing all round him ; and just 
 then, according to her story, Philip saw him, and 
 
 52—2 
 
196 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 went straight into t' midst o' t' shots, and fetched 
 him out o' danger. That's what she says, and 
 upholds." 
 
 ee And why should it not be ? " asked Hester, her 
 cheek flushing. 
 
 But Sylvia only shook her head, and said, 
 
 " I cannot tell. It may be so. But they had little 
 cause to be friends, and it seems all so strange — 
 Philip a soldier, and them meeting there after all ! " 
 
 Hester laid the story of Philip's bravery to her 
 heart — she fully believed in it. Sylvia pondered 
 it more deeply still ; the causes for her disbelief, or, 
 at any rate, for her wonder,, were unknown to 
 Hester ! Many a time she sank to sleep with the 
 picture of the event narrated by Mrs. Kinraid as 
 present to her mind as her imagination or experience 
 could make it : first one figure prominent, then 
 another. Many a morning she wakened up, her 
 heart beating wildly, why, she knew not, till she 
 shuddered at the remembrance of the scenes that 
 had passed in her dreams : scenes that might be 
 acted in reality that very day; for Philip might 
 come back, and then ? 
 
 And where was Philip all this time, these many 
 weeks, these heavily passing months ? 
 
197 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHKE. 
 
 Philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship. If 
 his heart had been light, he might have rallied 
 sooner ; but he was so depressed he did not care 
 to live. His shattered jawbone, his burnt and 
 blackened face, his many injuries of body, were 
 torture to both his physical frame, and his sick, 
 weary heart. No more chance for him, if indeed 
 there ever had been any, of returning gay and 
 gallant, and thus regaining his wife's love. This had 
 been his poor, foolish vision in the first hour of his 
 enlistment ; and the vain dream had recurred more 
 than once in the feverish stage of excitement which 
 the new scenes into which he had been hurried as a 
 recruit had called forth. But that was all over now. 
 He knew that it was the most unlikely thing in the 
 world to have come to pass ; and yet those were 
 happy days when he could think of it as barely 
 possible. Now all he could look forward to was dis- 
 
198 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 figurement, feebleness, and the bare pittance that 
 keeps pensioners from absolute want. 
 
 Those around him were kind enough to him in 
 their fashion, and attended to his bodily requirements ; 
 but they had no notion of listening to any revelations 
 of unhappiness, if Philip had been the man to make 
 confidences of that kind. As it was, he lay very still 
 in his berth, seldom asking for anything, and always 
 saying he was better, when the ship-surgeon came 
 round with his daily inquiries. But he did not care 
 to rally, and was rather sorry to find that his case 
 was considered so interesting in a surgical point of 
 view, that he was likely to receive a good deal more 
 than the average amount of attention. Perhaps it 
 was owing to this that he recovered at all. The 
 doctors said it was the heat that made him lan- 
 guid., for that his wounds and burns were all doing 
 well at last; and by-and-by they told him they 
 had ordered him " home." His pulse sank under 
 the surgeon's finger at the mention of the word ; but 
 he did not say a word. He was too indifferent to 
 life and the world to have a will; otherwise they 
 might have kept their pet patient a little longer 
 where he was. 
 
 Slowly passing from ship to ship as occasion 
 served ; resting here and there in garrison hospitals, 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 199 
 
 Philip at length reached Portsmouth in England 
 on the evening of a September day in 1799. The 
 transport-ship in which he was, was loaded with 
 wounded and invalided soldiers and sailors ; all who 
 could manage it in any way struggled on deck to 
 catch the first view of the white coasts of England. 
 One man lifted his arm, took off his cap, and feebly 
 waved it aloft crying, u Old England for ever ! " in a 
 faint shrill voice, and then burst into tears and 
 sobbed aloud. Others tried to pipe up fe Rule, 
 Britannia," while more sate, weak and motionless, 
 looking towards the shores that once, not so long 
 ago, they never thought to see again. Philip was 
 one of these ; his place a little apart from the other 
 men. He was muffled up in a great military cloak 
 that had been given him by one of his officers ; he 
 felt the September breeze chill after his sojourn in a 
 warmer climate, and in his shattered state of health. 
 
 As the ship came in sight of Portsmouth harbour, 
 the signal flags ran up the ropes ; the beloved Union 
 Jack floated triumphantly over all. Return signals 
 were made from the harbour; on board all became 
 bustle and preparation for landing; while on shore 
 there was the evident movement of expectation, and 
 men in uniform were seen pressing their way to 
 the front, as if to them belonged the right of re- 
 
200 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 ception. They were the men from the barrack 
 hospital, that had been signalled for, come down 
 with ambulance litters and other marks of fore- 
 thought for the sick and wounded, who were return- 
 ing to the country for which they had fought and 
 suffered. 
 
 With a dash and a great rocking swing the vessel 
 came up to her appointed place, and was safely 
 moored. Philip sat still, almost as if he had no part 
 in the cries of welcome, the bustling care, the loud 
 directions that cut the air around him, and pierced 
 his nerves through and through. But one in authority 
 gave the order ; and Philip, disciplined to obedience, 
 rose to find his knapsack and leave the ship. 
 Passive as he seemed to be, he had his likings for 
 particular comrades ; there was one especially, a man 
 as different from Philip as well could be, to whom the 
 latter had always attached himself; a merry fellow 
 from Somersetshire, who was almost always cheerful 
 and bright, though Philip had overheard the doctors 
 say he would never be the man he was before he had 
 that shot through the side. This marine would 
 often sit making his fellows laugh, and laughing 
 himself at his own good-humoured jokes, till so 
 terrible a fit of coughing came on that those around 
 hi m feared that he would die in the paroxysm. 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 201 
 
 After one of these fits he had gasped out some 
 words, which led Philip to question him a little ; and 
 it turned out that in the quiet little village of Pot- 
 terne, far inland, nestled beneath the high stretches 
 of Salisbury Plain, he had a wife, and a child, a little 
 girl, just the same age even to a week as Philip's own 
 little Bella. It was this that drew Philip towards the 
 man ; and this that made Philip wait and go ashore 
 along with the poor consumptive marine. 
 
 The litters had moved off towards the hospital, 
 the sergeant in charge had given his words of com- 
 mand to the remaining invalids who tried to obey 
 them to the best of their power, falling into something 
 like military order for their march ; but soon, very 
 soon, the weakest broke step, and lagged behind; and 
 felt as if the rough welcomes and rude expressions of 
 sympathy from the crowd around were almost too 
 much for them. Philip and his companion were 
 about midway, when suddenly a young woman with 
 a child in her arms forced herself through the people, 
 between the soldiers who kept pressing on either side, 
 and threw herself on the neck of Philip's friend. 
 
 "Oh, Jem!" she sobbed, "I've walked all the 
 road from Potterne. I've never stopped but for food 
 and rest for Nelly, and now I've got you once again, 
 I've got you once again, bless God for it ! " 
 
202 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 She did not seem to see the deadly change that 
 had come over her husband since she parted with 
 him a ruddy young labourer ; she had got him once 
 again, as she phrased it, and that was enough for 
 her; she kissed his face, his hands, his very coat, 
 nor would she be repulsed from walking beside 
 him and holding his hand, while her little girl ran 
 along scared by the voices and the strange faces, and 
 clinging to her mammy's gown. 
 
 Jem coughed, poor fellow ! he coughed his church- 
 yard cough ; and Philip bitterly envied him — envied 
 his life, envied his approaching death ; for was he 
 not wrapped round with that woman's tender love, 
 and is not such love stronger than death? Philip 
 had felt as if his own heart was grown numb, and as 
 though it had changed to a cold, heavy stone. But 
 at the contrast of this man's lot to his own, he felt 
 that he had yet the power of suffering left to him. 
 
 The road they had to go was full of people, kept 
 off in some measure by the guard of soldiers. All 
 sorts of kindly speeches, and many a curious question 
 were addressed to the poor invalids as they walked 
 along. Philip's jaw, and the lower part of his face, 
 were bandaged up ; his cap was slouched down ; he 
 held his cloak about him, and shivered within its 
 folds. 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 203 
 
 They came to a standstill from some slight obstacle 
 at the corner of a street. Down the causeway of 
 this street a naval officer with a lady on his arm was 
 walking briskly, with a step that told of health and a 
 light heart. He stayed his progress though, when 
 he saw the convoy of maimed and wounded men ; he 
 said something, of which Philip only caught the 
 words, (( same uniform," (S for his sake," to the young 
 lady, whose cheek blanched a little, but whose eyes 
 kindled. Then leaving her for an instant, he pressed 
 forward ; he was close to Philip, — poor sad Philip 
 absorbed in his own thoughts, — so absorbed that he 
 noticed nothing till he heard a voice at his ear, having 
 the Northumbrian burr, the Newcastle inflections 
 that he knew of old, and that were to him like the 
 sick memory of a deadly illness ; and then he turned 
 his muffled face to the speaker, though he knew well 
 enough who it was, and averted his eyes after one 
 sight of the handsome, happy man, — the man whose 
 life he had saved once, and would save again, at the 
 risk of his own, but whom, for all that, he prayed that 
 he might never meet more on earth. 
 
 " Here, my fine fellow, take this," forcing a crown 
 piece into Philip's hand. " I wish it were more ; I'd 
 give you a pound if I had it with me." 
 
 Philip muttered something, and held out the coin 
 
204 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 to Captain Kinraid, of course in vain ; nor was there 
 time to urge it back upon the giver, for the obstacle 
 to their progress was suddenly removed, the crowd 
 pressed on the captain and his wife, the procession 
 moved on, and Philip along with it, holding the piece 
 in his hand, and longing to throw it far away. 
 Indeed he was on the point of dropping it, hoping to 
 do so unperceived, wdien he bethought him of giving 
 it to Jem's wife, the footsore woman, limping happily 
 along by her husband's side. They thanked him, 
 and spoke in his praise more than he could well bear. 
 It was no credit to him to give that away which 
 burned his fingers as long as he kept it. 
 
 Philip knew that the injuries he had received in 
 the explosion on board the Theseus, would oblige him 
 to leave the service. He also believed that they 
 would entitle him to a pension. But he had little 
 interest in his future life ; he was without hope, and 
 in a depressed state of health. He remained for 
 some little time stationary, and then went through 
 all the forms of dismissal on account of wounds re- 
 ceived in service, and was turned out loose upon the 
 world, uncertain where to go, indifferent as to what 
 became of him. 
 
 It was fine, warm October weather as he turned 
 his back upon the coast, and set off on his walk 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 205 
 
 northwards. Green leaves were yet upon the trees ; 
 the hedges were one flush of foliage and the wild 
 rough-flavoured fruits of different kinds ; the fields 
 were tawny with the uncleared-off stubble, or emerald 
 green with the growth of the aftermath. The 
 roadside cottage gardens were gay with hollyhocks 
 and Michaelmas daisies and marigolds, and the 
 bright panes of the windows glittered through a veil 
 of China roses. 
 
 The war was a popular one, and, as a natural 
 consequence, soldiers and sailors were heroes every- 
 where. Philip's long drooping form, his arm hung 
 in a sling, his face scarred and blackened, his 
 jaw bound up with a black silk handkerchief ; 
 these marks of active service were reverenced 
 by the rustic cottagers as though they had been 
 crowns and sceptres. Many a hard-handed labourer 
 left his seat by the chimney corner and came to his 
 door to have a look at one who had been fighting 
 the French, and pushed forward to have a grasp of 
 the stranger's hand as he gave back the empty cup 
 into the good wife's keeping, for the kind homely 
 women were ever ready with milk or homebrewed 
 to slake the feverish traveller's thirst when he 
 stopped at their doors and asked for a drink of 
 water. 
 
206 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 At the village public-house he had a welcome of a 
 more interested character, for the landlord knew full 
 well that his circle of customers would be large that 
 night, if it was only known that he had within his 
 doors a soldier or a sailor who had seen service. 
 The rustic politicians would gather round Philip, and 
 smoke and drink, and then question and discuss till 
 they were drouthy again ; and in their sturdy obtuse 
 minds they set down the extra glass and the super- 
 numerary pipe to the score of patriotism. 
 
 Altogether, human nature turned its sunny side 
 out to Philip just now ; and not before he needed the 
 warmth of brotherly kindness to cheer his shivering 
 soul. Day after day he drifted northwards, making 
 but the slow progress of a feeble man, and yet this 
 short daily walk tired him so much that he longed 
 for rest — for the morning to come when he needed 
 not to feel that in the course of an hour or two he 
 must be up and away. 
 
 He was toiling on with this longing at his heart 
 when he saw that he was drawing near a stately city, 
 with a great old cathedral in the centre keeping 
 solemn guard. This place might be yet two or three 
 miles distant; he was on a rising ground looking 
 down upon it. A labouring man passing by, ob- 
 served his pallid looks, and his languid attitude, 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 207 
 
 and told him for his comfort, that if he turned down 
 a lane to the left a few steps further on, he would 
 find himself at the Hospital of St. Sepulchre, where 
 bread and beer were given to all comers, and where 
 he might sit him down and rest awhile on the old 
 stone benches within the shadow of the gateway. 
 Obeying these directions, Philip came upon a build- 
 ing which dated from the time of Henry the Fifth. 
 Some knight, who had fought in the French wars of 
 that time, and had survived his battles and come 
 home to his old halls, had been stirred up by his con- 
 science, or by what was equivalent in those days, his 
 confessor, to build and endow a hospital for twelve 
 decayed soldiers, and a chapel wherein they were to 
 attend the daily masses he ordained to be said till the 
 end of all time (which eternity lasted rather more 
 than a century, pretty well for an eternity bespoken 
 by a man), for his soul and the souls of those whom 
 he had slain. There was a large division of the 
 quadrangular building set apart for the priest who 
 was to say these masses ; and to watch over the 
 well-being of the bedesmen. In process of years the 
 origin and primary purpose of the hospital had been 
 forgotten by all excepting the local antiquaries ; and 
 the place itself came to be regarded as a very 
 pleasant quaint set of almshouses ; and the warden's 
 
208 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 office (he who should have said or sung his daily 
 masses was now called the warden, and read daily 
 prayers and preached a sermon on Sundays), an 
 agreeable sinecure. 
 
 Another legacy of old Sir Simon Bray was that of 
 a small croft of land, the rent or profits of which 
 were to go towards giving to all who asked for it a 
 manchet of bread and a cup of good beer. This 
 beer was, so Sir Simon ordained, to be made after a 
 certain receipt which he left, in which ground ivy 
 took the place of hops. But the receipt, as well as 
 the masses, was modernized according to the progress 
 of time. 
 
 Philip stood under a great broad stone archway ; 
 the back-door into the warden's house was on the 
 right side; a kind of buttery-hatch was placed by 
 the porter's door on the opposite side. After some 
 consideration, Philip knocked at the closed shutter, 
 and the signal seemed to be well understood. He 
 heard a movement within; the hatch was drawn 
 aside, and his bread and beer were handed to him by 
 a pleasant-looking old man, who proved himself not 
 at all disinclined for conversation. 
 
 "You may sit down on yonder bench," said he. 
 "Nay, man! sit i' the sun, for it's a chilly place 
 this, and then you can look through the grate 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHKE. 209 
 
 and watch the old fellows toddling about in the 
 quad." 
 
 Philip sat down where the warm October sun 
 slanted upon, him, and looked through the iron 
 railing at the peaceful sight. 
 
 A great square of velvet lawn, intersected 
 diagonally with broad flag-paved walks, the same 
 kind of walk going all round the quadrangle; low 
 two-storied brick houses, tinted grey and yellow by 
 age, and in many places almost covered with vines, 
 Virginian creepers, and monthly roses ; before each 
 house a little plot of garden ground, bright with 
 flowers, and evidently tended with the utmost care ; 
 on the farther side the massive chapel ; here and 
 there an old or infirm man sunning himself, or 
 leisurely doing a bit of gardening, or talking to one 
 of his comrades — the place looked as if care and 
 want, and even sorrow, were locked out and ex- 
 cluded by the ponderous gate through which Philip 
 was gazing. 
 
 " It's a nice enough place, bean't it ? " said the 
 porter, interpreting Philip's looks pretty accurately. 
 <e Least ways, for them as likes it. I've got a bit- 
 weary of it myself ; it's so far from the world, as a 
 man may say ; not a decent public within a mile and 
 a half, where one can hear a bit of news of an evening.' 5 
 
 vol. in. 53 
 
210 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " I think I could make myself very content here," 
 replied Philip. " That's to say, if one were easy in 
 one's mind." 
 
 (i Ay, ay, my man. That's it everywhere. Why, 
 I don't think that I could enjoy myself — not even 
 at the White Hart, where they give you as good 
 a glass of ale for twopence as anywhere in the 
 four kingdoms — I couldn't, to say, flavour my ale 
 even there, if my old woman lay a-dying ; which is 
 a sign as it's the heart, and not the ale, -as makes 
 the drink." 
 
 Just then the warden's back-door opened, and 
 out came the warden himself, dressed in full clerical 
 costume. 
 
 He was going into the neighbouring city, but he 
 stopped to speak to Philip, the wounded soldier ; 
 and all the more readily because his old faded 
 uniform told the warden's experienced eye that he 
 had belonged to the Marines. 
 
 cc I hope you enjoy the victual provided for you 
 by the founder of St. Sepulchre," said he, kindly. 
 " You look but poorly, my good fellow, and as if a 
 slice of good cold meat would help your bread 
 down." 
 
 iS Thank you, sir ! " said Philip. " I'm not hungry, 
 only weary, and glad of a draught of beer. 1 ' 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 211 
 
 es You've been in the Marines, I see. Where have 
 you been serving ? " 
 
 " I was at the siege of Acre, last May, sir." 
 
 s: At Acre ! W ere you, indeed ! Then perhaps 
 you know my boy Harry ? He was in the — th." 
 
 e{ It was my regiment," said Philip, warming up 
 a little. Looking back upon his soldier's life, it 
 seemed to him to have many charms, because it was 
 so full of small daily interests. 
 
 "Then,- did you know my son, Lieutenant 
 Pennington ? " 
 
 " It was he that gave me this cloak, sir, when 
 they were sending me back to England. I had 
 been his servant for a short time before I was 
 wounded by the explosion on board the Theseus, 
 and he said I should feel the cold of the voyage. 
 He is very kind ; and I've heard say he promises to 
 be a first-rate officer." 
 
 ce You shall have a slice of roast beef, whether 
 you want it or not," said the warden, ringing the 
 bell at his own back-door. "I recognize the cloak 
 now — the young scamp ! How soon he has made it 
 shabby ; though," he continned, taking up a corner 
 where there was an immense tear, "not too well 
 botched up. And so you were on board the Theseus 
 at the time of the explosion ? Bring some cold meat 
 
 53—2 
 
212 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 here for the good man — or stay ! Come in with me, 
 and then you can tell Mrs. Pennington and the 
 young ladies all you know about Harry , — and the 
 siege, — and the explosion." 
 
 So Philip w r as ushered into the warden's house 
 and made to eat roast beef, almost against his will ; 
 and he was questioned and cross-questioned by three 
 eager ladies, all at the same time, as it seemed to 
 him. He had given all possible details on the 
 subjects about which they were curious; and was 
 beginning to consider how he could best make his 
 retreat, when the younger Miss Pennington went up 
 to her father — who had all this time stood, with his 
 hat on, holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his 
 back to the fire. He bent his ear down a very little 
 to hear some whispered suggestion of his daughter's, 
 nodded his head, and then went on questioning 
 Philip, w T ith kindly inquisitiveness and patronage, 
 as the rich do question the poor. 
 
 (i And where are you going to now ? " 
 
 Philip did not answer directly. He wondered in 
 his own mind where he was going. At length he said, 
 
 "Northwards, I believe. But perhaps I shall 
 never reach there." 
 
 " Have not you friends ? Aren't you going to 
 them?" 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 213 
 
 There was again a pause ; a cloud came over 
 Philip's countenance. He said, 
 
 " No ! I am not going to my friends. I do not 
 know that I've got any left." 
 
 They interpreted his looks and this speech to 
 mean that he had either lost his friends by death, 
 or offended them by enlisting. 
 
 The warden went on, 
 
 " I ask, because we have got a cottage vacant in 
 the mead. Old Dobson, who was with General 
 Wolfe at the taking of Quebec, died a fortnight ago. 
 With such injuries as yours, I fear you will never 
 be able to work again. But we require strict testi- 
 monials as to character," he added, with as pene- 
 trating a look as he could summon up at Philip. 
 
 Philip looked unmoved, either by the offer of the 
 cottage, or the allusion to the possibility of his 
 character not being satisfactory. He was grateful 
 enough in reality, but too heavy at heart to care 
 very much what became of him. 
 
 The warden and his family, who were accus- 
 tomed to consider a settlement at St. Sepulchre's as 
 the sum of all good to a worn-out soldier, were a 
 little annoyed at Philip's cool way of receiving the 
 proposition. The warden went on to name the con- 
 tingent advantages. 
 
214 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " Besides the cottage, you would have a load of 
 wood for firing on All Saints', or Christmas, and on 
 Candlemas days — a blue gown and suit of clothes to 
 match every Michaelmas, and a shilling a day to 
 keep yourself in all other things. Your dinner you 
 would have with the other men, in hall." 
 
 "The warden himself goes into hall every day, 
 and sees that everything is comfortable, and says 
 grace/' added the warden's lady. 
 
 " I know I seem stupid," said Philip, almost 
 humbly, " not to be more grateful, for it's far beyond 
 what I ever expected or thought for again, and it's a 
 great temptation, for I'm just worn out w r ith fatigue. 
 Several times I have thought I must lie down under 
 a hedge, and just die for very weariness. But once 
 I had a wife and a child up in the north," he 
 stopped. 
 
 " And are they dead ? " asked one of the young 
 ladies in a soft sympathizing tone. Her eyes met 
 Philip's, full of dumb woe. He tried to speak ; he 
 wanted to explain more fully, yet not to reveal the 
 truth. 
 
 "Well!" said the warden, thinking he perceived 
 the real state of things, "what I propose is this. 
 You shall go into old Dobson's house at once, as a 
 kind of probationary bedesman. I will write to 
 
THE BEDESMAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 215 
 
 Harry, and get your character from him. Stephen 
 Freeman I think you said your name was ? Before I 
 can receive his reply you will have been able to tell 
 how you would like the kind of life ; and at any rate 
 you will have the rest you seem to require in the mean- 
 time. You see, I take Harry's having given you that 
 cloak as a kind of character," added he, smiling kindly. 
 " Of course you'll have to conform to rules just like 
 all the rest, — chapel at eight, dinner at twelve, lights 
 out at nine, but I'll tell you the remainder of our 
 regulations as we walk across quad to your new 
 quarters." 
 
 And thus Philip, almost in spite of himself, became 
 installed in a bedesman's house at St. Sepulchre. 
 
216 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 A FABLE AT FAULT. 
 
 Philip took possession of the two rooms which had 
 belonged to the dead Sergeant Dobson. They were 
 furnished sufficiently for every comfort by the 
 trustees of the hospital. Some little fragments of 
 ornament, some small articles picked up in distant 
 countries, a few tattered books, remained in the 
 rooms as legacies from their former occupant. 
 
 At first the repose of the life and the place was 
 inexpressibly grateful to Philip. He had always 
 shrunk from encountering strangers, and displaying 
 his blackened and scarred countenance to them, even 
 where such disfigurement was most regarded as a 
 mark of honour. In St. Sepulchre's he met none 
 but the same set day after day, and when he had 
 once told the tale of how it happened and submitted 
 to their gaze, it was over for ever, if he so minded. 
 The slight employment his garden gave him — there 
 was a kitchen-garden behind each house, as well as 
 
A FABLE AT FAULT. 
 
 217 
 
 the flower-plot in front — and the daily arrangement 
 of his parlour and chamber were, at the beginning of 
 his time of occupation, as much bodily labour as he 
 could manage. There was something stately and 
 utterly removed from all Philip's previous existence 
 in the forms observed at every day's dinner, when the 
 twelve bedesmen met in the large quaint hall and 
 the warden came in in his college-cap and gown to 
 say the long Latin grace which wound up with some- 
 thing very like a prayer for the soul of Sir Simon 
 Bray. It took some time to get a reply to ship 
 letters in those times when no one could exactly say 
 where the fleet might be found. 
 
 And before Dr. Pennington had received the ex- 
 cellent character of Stephen Freeman, which his son 
 gladly sent in answer to his father's inquiries, Philip 
 had become restless and uneasy in the midst of all 
 this peace and comfort. 
 
 Sitting alone over his fire in the long winter even- 
 ings, the scenes of his past life rose before him ; his 
 childhood ; his aunt Robson's care of him ; his first 
 going to Foster's shop in Monkshaven ; Hay tersbank 
 Farm, and the spelling lessons in the bright warm 
 kitchen there ; Kinraid's appearance ; the miserable 
 night of the Corney's party; the farewell he had 
 witnessed on Monkshaven sands ; the press-gang, and 
 
218 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 all the long consequences of that act of concealment ; 
 poor Daniel Robson's trial and execution; Philip's 
 marriage ; his child's birth, and then he came to that 
 last day at Monkshaven : and he went over and over 
 again the torturing details, the looks of contempt and 
 anger, the words of loathing indignation, till he 
 almost brought himself, out of his extreme sympathy 
 with Sylvia, to believe that he was indeed the wretch 
 she had considered him to be. 
 
 He forgot his own excuses for having acted as he 
 had done ; though these excuses had at one time 
 seemed to him to wear the garb of reasons. After 
 long thought and bitter memory came some wonder. 
 What was Sylvia doing now ? Where was she ? 
 What was his child like ? — his child as well as hers. 
 And then he remembered the poor footsore wife 
 and the little girl she carried in her arms, that 
 was just the age of Bella ; he wished he had noticed 
 that child more, that a clear vision of it might 
 rise up when he wanted to picture Bella. 
 
 One night he had gone round this mill-wheel 
 circle of ideas till he was weary to the very marrow 
 of his bones. To shake off the monotonous impression 
 he rose to look for a book amongst the old tattered 
 volumes, hoping that he might find something that 
 would sufficiently lay hold of him to change the 
 
A FABLE AT FAULT. 
 
 219 
 
 current of his thoughts. There was an odd volume 
 of Peregrine Pickle ; a book of sermons ; half an 
 army list of 1774, and the Seven Champions of 
 Christendom. Philip took up this last, which he had 
 never seen before. In it he read how Sir Guy, 
 Earl of Warwick, went to fight the Paynim in his 
 own country, and was away for seven long years ; 
 and when he came back his own wife Phillis, the 
 countess in her castle, did not know the poor 
 travel-worn hermit, who came daily to seek his 
 dole of bread at her hands along with many beggars 
 and much poor. But at last, when he lay a-dying 
 in his cave in the rock, he sent for her by a secret 
 sign known but to them twain. And she came with 
 great speed, for she knew it was her lord who 
 had sent for her; and they had many sweet and 
 holy words together before he gave up the ghost, 
 his head lying on her bosom. 
 
 The old story known to most people from their 
 childhood was all new and fresh to Philip. He did 
 not quite believe in the truth of it, because the 
 fictitious nature of the histories of some of the other 
 Champions of Christendom was too patent. But 
 he could not help thinking that this one might be 
 true ; and that Guy and Phillis might have been 
 as real flesh and blood long, long ago, as he and 
 
220 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 Sylvia had even been. The old room, the quiet 
 moonlit quadrangle into which the cross-barred case- 
 ment looked, the quaint aspect of everything that he 
 had seen for weeks and weeks ; all this predisposed 
 Philip to dwell upon the story he had just been 
 reading as a faithful legend of two lovers whose 
 bones were long since dust. He thought that if 
 he could thus see Sylvia, himself unknown, un- 
 seen—could live at her gates, so to speak, and 
 gaze upon her and his child — some day too, when 
 he lay a-dying, might send for her, and in soft 
 words of mutual forgiveness breathe his life away 
 in her arms. Or perhaps— — and so he lost himself, 
 and from thinking passed on to dreaming. All 
 night long Guy and Phillis, Sylvia and his child, 
 passed in and out of his visions ; it was impossible to 
 make the fragments of his dreams cohere; but the 
 impression made upon him by them was not the 
 less strong for this. He felt as if he were called 
 to Monkshaven, wanted at Monkshaven, and to 
 Monkshaven he resolved to go; although when his 
 reason overtook his feeling, he knew perfectly how 
 unwise it was to leave a home of peace and tran- 
 quillity and surrounding friendliness, to go to a 
 place where nothing but want and wretchedness 
 awaited him unless he made himself known; and 
 
A FABLE AT FAULT. 221 
 
 if he did, a deeper want, a more woeful wretched- 
 ness, would in all probability be his portion. 
 
 In the small oblong of looking-glass hung against 
 the wall, Philip caught the reflection of his own 
 face, and laughed scornfully at the sight. The 
 thin hair lay upon his temples in the flakes that 
 betoken long ill health; his eyes were the same 
 as ever, and they had always been considered the 
 best feature in his face; but they were sunk in 
 their orbits, and looked hollow and gloomy. As 
 for the lower part of his face, blackened, contracted, 
 drawn away from his teeth, the outline entirely 
 changed by the breakage of his jaw-bone, he was 
 indeed a fool if he thought himself fit to go forth 
 to win back that love which Sylvia had forsworn. 
 As a hermit and a beggar, he must return to 
 Monkshaven, and fall perforce into the same position 
 which Guy of Warwick had only assumed. But still 
 he should see his Phillis, and might feast his sad 
 hopeless eyes from time to time with the sight of 
 his child. His small pension of sixpence a day 
 would keep him from absolute want of neces- 
 saries. 
 
 So that very day he went to the warden and 
 told him he thought of giving up his share in 
 the bequest of Sir Simon Bray. Such a relinquish- 
 
222 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 ment had never occurred before in all the warden's 
 experience ; and he was very much inclined to be 
 offended. 
 
 " I must say that for a man not to be satisfied 
 as a bedesman of St. Sepulchre's argues a very 
 wrong state of mind, and a very ungrateful 
 heart." 
 
 " I am sure, sir, it is not from any ingratitude, 
 for I can hardly feel thankful enough to you and to 
 Sir Simon, and to madam, and the young ladies, and 
 all my comrades in the hospital, and I never expect 
 to be either so comfortable or so peaceful again, 
 but " 
 
 "But? What can you have to say against the 
 place, then ? Not but what there are always plenty 
 of applicants for every vacancy; only I thought 
 I was doing a kindness to a man out of Harry's 
 regiment. And you'll not see Harry either; he's 
 got his leave in March ! " 
 
 "I'm very sorry. I should like to have seen 
 the lieutenant again. But I cannot rest any longer 
 so far away from — people I once knew. 
 
 " Ten to one they're dead, or removed, or some- 
 thing or other by this time ; and it will serve 
 you right if they are. Mind ! no one can be chosen 
 twice to be a bedesman of St. Sepulchre's." 
 
A FABLE AT FAULT. 
 
 223 
 
 The warden turned away ; and Philip, uneasy at 
 staying, disheartened at leaving, went to make his 
 few preparations for setting out once more on his 
 journey northwards. He had to give notice of 
 his change of residence to the local distributor of 
 pensions ; and one or two farewells had to be taken, 
 with more than usual sadness at the necessity; for 
 Philip, under his name of Stephen Freeman, had 
 attached some of the older bedesmen a good deal to 
 him, from his unselfishness, his willingness to read 
 to them, and to render them many little services, 
 and, perhaps, as much as anything, by his habitual 
 silence, which made him a convenient recipient of 
 all their garrulousness. So before the time for 
 his departure came, he had the opportunity of one 
 more interview with the warden, of a more friendly 
 character than that in which he gave up his bedes- 
 manship. And so far it was well; and Philip 
 turned his back upon St. Sepulchre's with his sore 
 heart partly healed by his four months' residence 
 there. 
 
 He w r as stronger, too, in body, more capable of 
 the day-after- day walks that were required of him. 
 He had saved some money from his allowance as 
 bedesman and from his pension, and might occa- 
 sionally have taken an outside place on a coach, 
 
224 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 had it not been that he shrank from the first look of 
 every stranger upon his disfigured face. Yet the 
 gentle, wistful eyes, and the white and faultless 
 teeth always did away with the first impression as 
 soon as people became a little acquainted with his 
 appearance. 
 
 It was February when Philip left St. Sepulchre's. 
 It was the first week in April when he began to 
 recognize the familiar objects between York and 
 Monkshaven. And now he began to hang back, 
 and to question the wisdom of what he had done 
 — just as the warden had prophesied that he would. 
 The last night of his two hundred mile walk, he 
 slept at the little inn at which he had been enlisted 
 nearly two years before. It was by no intention 
 of his that he rested at that identical place. Night 
 was drawing on ; and, in making, as he thought, 
 a short cut, he had missed his way, and was fain 
 to seek shelter where he might find it. But it 
 brought him very straight face to face with his 
 life at that time, and ever since. His mad, wild 
 hopes— half the result of intoxication, as he now 
 knew — all dead and gone; the career then freshly 
 opening shut up against him now; his youthful 
 strength and health changed into premature infirmity, 
 and the home and the love that should have opened 
 
A FABLE AT FAULT. 
 
 225 
 
 wide its doors to console him for all., why in two 
 years Death might have been busy, and taken away 
 from him his last feeble chance of the faint happiness 
 of seeing his beloved without being seen or known 
 of her. All that night and all the next day, the 
 fear of Sylvia's possible death overclouded his heart. 
 It was strange that he had hardly ever thought of 
 this before; so strange, that now, when the terror 
 came, it took possession of him, and he could almost 
 have sworn that she must be lying dead in Monks- 
 haven churchyard. Or was it little Bella, that 
 blooming, lovely babe, whom he was never to see 
 again? There was the tolling of mournful bells 
 in the distant air to his disturbed fancy, and the 
 cry of the happy birds, the plaintive bleating of the 
 new-dropped lambs, were all omens of evil import 
 to him. 
 
 As well as he could, he found his way back to 
 Monkshaven, over the wild heights and moors he 
 had crossed on that bleak day of misery ; why he 
 should have chosen that path he could not tell — it 
 was as if he were led, and had no free will of his own. 
 
 The soft clear evening was drawing on, and his 
 heart beat thick, and then stopped, only to start 
 again with fresh violence. There he was, at the 
 top of the long, steep lane that was in some parts 
 
 vol. nr. 54 
 
226 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 a literal staircase leading down from the hill-top 
 into the High Street, through the very entry up 
 which he had passed when he shrank away from 
 his former and his then present life. There he stood, 
 looking down once more at the numerous irregular 
 roofs, the many stacks of chimneys below him, 
 seeking out that which had once been his own 
 dwelling, — who dwelt there now ? 
 
 The yellower gleams grew narrower ; the evening 
 shadows broader, and Philip crept down the lane a 
 weary, woeful man. At every gap in the close- 
 packed buildings he heard the merry music of a 
 band, the cheerful sound of excited voices. Still he 
 descended slowly, scarcely wondering what it could 
 be, for it was not associated in his mind with the one 
 pervading thought of Sylvia. 
 
 When he came to the angle of junction between 
 the lane and the High Street, he seemed plunged all 
 at once into the very centre of the bustle, and he 
 drew himself up into a corner of deep shadow from 
 whence he could look out upon the street. 
 
 A circus was making its grand entry into Monks- 
 haven, with all the pomp of colour and of noise that 
 it could muster. Trumpeters in parti- coloured clothes 
 rode first, blaring out triumphant discord. Next 
 came a goid-and-scarlet chariot drawn by six piebald 
 
A TABLE AT FAULT. 
 
 227 
 
 horses, and the windings of this team through the 
 tortuous narrow street were pretty enough to look 
 upon. In the chariot sate kings and queens, heroes 
 and heroines, or what were meant for such ; all the 
 little boys and girls running alongside of the chariot 
 envied them ; but they themselves were very much 
 tired, and shivering with cold in their heroic pomp of 
 classic clothing. All this Philip might have seen; 
 did see in fact; but heeded not one jot. Almost 
 opposite to him, not ten yards apart, standing on th 
 raised step at the well-known shop-door, was Sylvia, 
 holding a child, a merry dancing child, up in her arms 
 to see the show. She too, Sylvia, was laughing for 
 pleasure and for sympathy with pleasure. She held 
 the little Bella aloft that the child might see the 
 gaudy procession the better and the longer, looking 
 at it herself with red lips apart and white teeth 
 glancing through ; then she turned to speak to some 
 one behind her — Coulson, as Philip saw the moment 
 afterwards ; his answer made her laugh once again. 
 Philip saw it all ; her bonny careless looks, her pretty 
 matronly form, her evident ease of mind and pros- 
 perous outward circumstances. The years that he 
 had spent in gloomy sorrow, amongst wild scenes, on 
 land or by sea, his life in frequent peril of a bloody 
 end, had gone by with her like sunny days ; all the 
 
 54—2 
 
228 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 more sunny because lie was not there. So bitterly 
 thought the poor disabled marine as, weary and de- 
 spairing, he stood in the cold shadow and looked upon 
 the home that should have been his haven, the wife 
 that should have welcomed him, the child that should 
 have been his comfort. He had banished himself 
 from his home; his wife had forsworn him; his child 
 was blossoming into intelligence unwitting of any 
 father. Wife, and child, and home, were all doing 
 well without him ; what madness had tempted him 
 thither ? An hour ago, like a fanciful fool, he had 
 thought she might be dead— dead with sad penitence 
 for her cruel words at her heart — with mournful 
 wonder at the unaccounted-for absence of her child's 
 father preying on her spirits and in some measure 
 causing the death he had apprehended. But to look 
 at her there where she stood, it did not seem as if she 
 had had an hour's painful thought in all her blooming 
 life. 
 
 Ay ! go in to the warm hearth, mother and child, 
 now the gay calvacade has gone out of sight, and the 
 chill of night has succeeded to the sun's setting. 
 Husband and father, steal out into the cold dark 
 street, and seek some poor cheap lodging where you 
 may rest your weary bones, and cheat your more 
 weary heart into forgetfulness in sleep. The pretty 
 
A FABLE AT FAULT. 
 
 229 
 
 story of the Countess Phillis, who mourned for her 
 husband's absence so long, is a fable of old times ; or 
 rather say Earl Guy never wedded his wife, knowing 
 that one she loved better than him was alive all the 
 time she had believed him to be dead. 
 
230 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 A few days before that on which Philip arrived at 
 Monkshaven, Kester had come to pay Sylvia a visit. 
 As the earliest friend she had, and also as one who 
 knew the real secrets of her life, Sylvia always 
 gave him the warm welcome, the cordial w T ords, and 
 the sweet looks in which the old man delighted. 
 He had a sort of delicacy of his own which kept 
 him from going to see her too often, even when 
 he was stationary at Monkshaven ; but he looked 
 forward to the times when he allowed himself this 
 pleasure as a child at school looks forward to its 
 holidays. The time of his service at Haytersbank 
 had, on the whole, been the happiest in all his long 
 monotonous years of daily labour. Sylvia's father 
 had always treated him with the rough kindness of 
 fellowship ; Sylvia's mother had never stinted him 
 in his meat or grudged him his share of the best 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 231 
 
 that was going; and once, when he was ill for a 
 few days in the loft above the cow-house, she had 
 made him possets, and nursed him with the same 
 tenderness which he remembered his mother show- 
 ing to him when he was a little child, but which 
 he had never experienced since then. He had 
 known Sylvia herself, as bud, and sweet promise 
 of blossom; and just as she was opening into the 
 full-blown rose, and, if she had been happy and 
 prosperous, might have passed out of the narrow 
 circle of Kester's interests, one sorrow after another 
 came down upon her pretty innocent head, and 
 Kester's period of service to Daniel Robson, her 
 father, was tragically cut short. All this made 
 Sylvia the great centre of the faithful herdsman's 
 affection ; and Bella, who reminded him of what 
 Sylvia was when first Kester knew her, only occu- 
 pied the second place in his heart, although to the 
 child he was much more demonstrative of his regard 
 than to the mother. 
 
 He had dressed himself in his Sunday best, and 
 although it was only Thursday had forestalled his 
 Saturday's shaving ; he had provided himself with 
 a paper of humbugs for the child — " humbugs " 
 being the north-country term for certain lumps of 
 tony, well-flavoured with peppermint — and now he 
 
232 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 sat in the accustomed chair, as near to the door 
 as might be, in Sylvia's presence, coaxing the little 
 one, who was not quite sure of his identity, to come 
 to him, by opening the paper parcel, and letting 
 its sweet contents be seen. 
 
 " She's like thee — and yet she favours her father," 
 said he ; and the moment he had uttered the 
 incautious words, he looked up to see how Sylvia 
 had taken the unpremeditated, unusual reference to 
 her husband. His stealthy glance did not meet 
 her eye; but though he thought she had coloured 
 a little, she did not seem offended as he had feared. 
 It was true that Bella had her father's grave, 
 thoughtful, dark eyes, instead of her mother's grey 
 ones, out of which the childlike expression of wonder 
 would never entirely pass away. And as Bella 
 slowly and half distrustfully made her way towards 
 the temptation offered her, she looked at Kester with 
 just her father's look. 
 
 Sylvia said nothing in direct reply ; Kester almost 
 thought she could not have heard him. But, 
 by-and-by, she said, — 
 
 " Yo'll have heard how Kinraid — who's a captain 
 now, and a grand officer — has gone and got married." 
 
 " Nay ! " said Kester, in genuine surprise. " He 
 never lias, for sure ! " 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 233 
 
 " Ay, but he has," said Sylvia. ce And I'm sure 
 I don't see why he shouldn't." 
 
 <( Well, well ! " said Kester, not looking up at her, 
 for he caught the inflections in the tones of her 
 voice. " He were a fine stirring chap, yon ; and he 
 were allays for doing summut ; and when he found 
 he couldn't have one thing as he'd set his mind on, 
 I reckon he thought he must put up wi' another." 
 
 " It would be no e putting up,' " said Sylvia, 
 " She was staying at Bessy Dawson's, and she came 
 here to see me — she's as pretty a young lady as 
 yo'd see on a summer's day ; and a real lady, too, 
 with a fortune. She didn't speak two words without 
 bringing in her husband's name, — the e captain,' as 
 she called him." 
 
 " And she came to see thee ? " said Kester, cocking 
 his eye at Sylvia with the old shrewd look. ee That 
 were summut queer, weren't it ?" 
 
 Sylvia reddened a good deal. 
 
 " He's too fause to have spoken to her or me, 
 in t' old way, — as he used for t' speak to me. I 
 were nought to her but Philip's wife." 
 
 " And what t' dickins had she to do wi' Philip ? " 
 asked Kester, in intense surprise ; and so absorbed 
 in curiosity that he let the humbugs all fall out 
 of the paper upon the floor, and the little Bella sat 
 
234 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 down, plump, in the midst of treasures as great 
 as those fabled to exist on Tom Tiddler's ground. 
 
 Sylvia was again silent ; but Kester, knowing her 
 well, was sure that she was struggling to speak, 
 and bided his time without repeating his 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's life somewhere near- 
 abouts to Jerusalem. She would have it that t' 
 captain — for I think I'll niver call him Kinraid 
 again — was in a great battle, and were near upon 
 being shot by the French, when Philip — our Philip 
 — came 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 she came to see 
 me, to try and get news on him." 
 
 " It's a queer kind o' story," said Kester, medi- 
 tatively. "A should ha' thought as Philip were 
 more likely to ha' gi'en him a shove into t' thick 
 on it, than to help him out o' t' scrape." 
 
 "Nay!" said Sylvia, suddenly looking straight at 
 Kester ; " yo're out there. Philip had a deal o' 
 good in him. And I dunnot think as he would have 
 gone and married another woman so soon, if he'd 
 been i' Kinraid's place." 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 235 
 
 "An' yo've niver heerd on Philip sin' he left?" 
 asked Kester, after a while. 
 
 ee Niver ; nought but what she told me. And she 
 said that t' captain made inquiry for him right and 
 left, as soon after that happened as might be, and 
 could hear niver a word about him. No one had 
 seen him, or knowed his name." 
 
 (e Yo' never heard of his going for to be a soldier ?" 
 persevered Kester. 
 
 "Niver. I've told yo' once. It were unlike 
 Philip to think o' such a thing." 
 
 " But thou must ha' been thinking on him at times 
 in a' these years. Bad as he had behaved hissel', 
 he were t' father o' thy little one. What didst ta 
 think he had been agait on when he left here ? " 
 
 " I didn't know. I were noan so keen a-thinking 
 on him at first. I tried to put him out o' my thoughts 
 a'together, for it made me like mad to think how he 
 had stood between me and — that other. But I'd begun 
 to wonder and to wonder about him, and to think I 
 should like to hear as he were doing well. I reckon 
 I thought he were i' London, where he'd been that 
 time afore, yo' know, and had allays spoke as if he'd 
 enjoyed hissel tolerable; and then Molly Brunton 
 told me on t' other one's marriage; and, somehow, 
 it gave me a shake in my heart, and I began for to 
 
236 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 wish I hadn't said all them words i' my passion ; 
 and then that fine young lady came wi' her story — 
 and I've thought a deal on it since, — and my mind 
 has come out clear. Philip's dead, and it were his 
 spirit as came to t' other's help in his time o' need. 
 I've heard father say as spirits cannot rest i' their 
 graves for trying to undo t' wrongs they've done 
 i' their bodies." 
 
 " Them's my conclusions," said Kester, solemnly. 
 " A was fain for to hear what were yo'r judgments 
 first ; but them is the conclusions I corned to as soon 
 as I heered t' tale." 
 
 (e Let alone that one thing," said Sylvia, " he were 
 a kind, good man." 
 
 (e It were a big deal on a e one thing,' though," said 
 Kester. " It just spoilt yo'r life, my poor lass ; and 
 might ha' gone near to spoiling Charley Kinraid's." 
 
 ee 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 well on for bein' spoilt at after he 
 left here ; and it were, mebbe, a good 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 moaning after what's past 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 237 
 
 as it would be for me t' fill my eyes wi' weeping 
 after t' humbugs as this little wench o' thine has 
 grubbed up whilst we ha' been talking. Why, 
 there's not one on 'em left ! " 
 
 " She's a sad spoilt little puss ! " said Sylvia, 
 holding out her arms to the child, who ran into 
 them, and began patting her mother's cheeks, and 
 pulling at the soft brown curls tucked away beneath 
 the matronly cap. <e 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 John Foster does above a bit. He'll 
 come in from t' Bank, Kester, and ask for her, 
 a'most every day. And he'll bring her things in his 
 pocket ; and she's so fause, she allays goes straight 
 to 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 her kisses. " And he 
 comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goes 
 as slow as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace 
 wi' Bella's steps. I often run upstairs and watch 
 'em out o' t' window ; he doesn't care to have me 
 with 'em, he's so fain t' have t' child all to 
 hisself." 
 
238 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " She's a bonny one, for sure/' said Kester ; " but 
 not so pretty as thou was, Sylvia. A've never tell'd 
 thee what a came for tho', and it's about time for 
 me to be going. A'm off to t' Cheviots to-morrow 
 morn to fetch home some sheep as Jonas Blundell 
 has purchased. It '11 be a job o' better nor two 
 months a reckon." 
 
 " It '11 be a nice time o' year," said Sylvia, a 
 little surprised at Kester's evident discouragement at 
 the prospect of the journey or absence ; he had often 
 been away from Monkshaven for a longer time 
 without seeming to care so much about it. 
 
 " Well, yo' see it's a bit hard upon me for to leave 
 my sister — she as is t' widow-woman, where a put 
 up when a'm at home. Things is main and dear ; 
 four-pound loaves is at sixteenpence ; and there's a 
 deal o' talk on a famine in t' land ; and whaten 
 a paid for my victual, and t' bed i' t' lean-to helped 
 t' oud woman a bit, — and she's sadly down i' t' 
 mouth, for she cannot hear on a lodger for t' take 
 my place, for all she's moved o'er to t' other side 
 o' t' bridge for t' be nearer new buildings, and t' 
 grand new walk they're making round t' cliffs, think- 
 ing she'd be likelier to pick up a labourer as would 
 be glad on a bed near his work. A'd ha' liked to 
 ha' set her agait wi' a 'sponsible lodger afore a'd ha* 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 239 
 
 left, for she's just so soft-hearted, any scamp may 
 put upon her if he nobbut gets hold on her blind 
 side." 
 
 " Can I help her ? " said Sylvia, in her eager way. 
 e( I should be so glad ; and I've a deal of money by 
 me " 
 
 ee Nay, my lass," said Kester, e{ thou munnot go 
 off so fast; it were just what I were feared on i ? 
 telling thee. I've left her a bit o' money, and I'll 
 make shift to send her more ; it's just a kind word, 
 to keep up her heart when I'm gone, as I want. If 
 thou'd step in and see her fra time to time, and cheer 
 her up a bit wi' talking to her on me, I'd take 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 like mysel' when yo're away, for I'm 
 lonesome enough at times. She and I will talk all 
 the better about yo' for both on us grieving after 
 
 yo'." 
 
 So Kester took his leave, his mind set at ease by 
 Sylvia's promise to go and see his sister pretty often 
 during his absence in the North. 
 
 But Sylvia's habits were changed since she, as 
 a girl at Haytersbank, liked to spend half her time 
 in the open air, running out perpetually without 
 anything on to scatter crumbs to the poultry, or 
 
240 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 to take a piece of bread to the old cart-horse, to 
 go up to the garden for a handful of herbs, or to 
 clamber to the highest point around to blow the 
 horn which summoned her father and Kester home 
 to dinner. Living in a town where it was necessary 
 to put on hat and cloak before going out into the 
 street, and then to walk in a steady and decorous 
 fashion, she had only cared to escape down to the 
 freedom of the sea-shore until Philip went away ; 
 and after that time she had learnt so to fear observa- 
 tion as a deserted wife, that nothing but Bella's 
 health would have been a sufficient motive to take 
 her out of doors. And, as she had told Kester, the 
 necessity of giving the little girl a daily walk was 
 very much lightened by the great love and affection 
 which Jeremiah Foster now bore to the child. Ever 
 since the day when the baby had come to his knee, 
 allured by the temptation of his watch, he had 
 apparently considered her as in some sort belonging 
 to him ; and now he had almost come to think that 
 he had a right to claim her as his companion in his 
 walk back from the bank to his early dinner, where 
 a high chair was always placed ready for the chance 
 of her coming to share his meal. On these occasions 
 he generally brought her back to the shop-door 
 when he returned to his afternoon's work at the 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 24 L 
 
 bank. Sometimes, however, he would leave word 
 that she was to be sent for from his house in the 
 New Town, as his business at the bank for that day 
 was ended. Then Sylvia was compelled to put on her 
 things, and fetch back her darling ; and excepting for 
 this errand she seldom went out at all on week-days. 
 
 About a fortnight after Kester's farewell call, 
 this need for her visit to Jeremiah Foster's arose ; 
 and it seemed to Sylvia that there could not be 
 a better opportunity of fulfilling her promise and 
 going to see the widow Dobson, whose cottage was 
 on the other side of the river, low down on the 
 cliff side, just at the bend and rush of the full stream 
 into the open sea. She set off pretty early in order 
 to go there first. She found the widow with her 
 house-place tidied up after the midday meal, and 
 busy knitting at the open door — not looking at her 
 rapid- clicking needles, but gazing at the rush and 
 recession of the waves before her; yet not seeing 
 them either, — 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 in her wild 
 childish days. Widow Dobson was always a little 
 scandalized at her brother Christopher's familiarity 
 with Mrs. Hepburn. 
 
 vol. in. 55 
 
242 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 She dusted a chair which needed no dusting, and 
 placed it for Sylvia, sitting down herself on a three- 
 legged stool to mark her sense of the difference 
 in their conditions, for there was another chair or 
 two in the humble dwelling ; and then the two fell 
 into talk — first about Kester, whom his sister would 
 persist in calling Christopher, as if his dignity as 
 her elder brother was compromised by any familiar 
 abbreviation; and by-and-by she opened her heart 
 a little more. 
 
 "A could wish as a'd learned write-of-hand," 
 said she ; " for a've that 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 comfort 
 mysel' wi' thinking nobody need learn writing unless 
 they has got friends as can read. But a reckon 
 he'd ha' been glad to hear as a've getten a lodger." 
 Here she nodded her head in the direction of the 
 door opening out of the house-place into the i( lean- 
 to," which Sylvia had observed on drawing near the 
 cottage, and the recollection of the mention of which 
 by Kester had enabled her to identify widow 
 Dobson's dwelling. " He's a-bed yonder," the latter 
 continued, dropping her voice. w He's a queer-look- 
 ing tyke, but a don't think as he's a bad one." 
 
 (i When did he come ? " said Sylvia, remembering 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 243 
 
 Kester's account of his sister's character, and feel- 
 ing as though it behoved her, as Kester's confi- 
 dante on this head, to give cautious and prudent 
 advice. 
 
 " Eh ! a matter of a s'ennight ago. A'm noan good 
 at minding time; he's paid me his rent twice, but 
 then he were keen to pay aforehand. He'd corned 
 in one night, and sate him down afore he could 
 speak, he were so done up ; he'd been on tramp 
 this many a day, a reckon. 'Can yo' give me a 
 bed ? ' says he, panting like, after a bit. e A chap as 
 a met near here says as yo've a lodging for t' let.' 
 < Ay,' says a, e a ha' that ; but yo' mun pay me 
 a shilling a week for 't.' Then my mind misgive 
 me, for a thought he hadn't a shilling i' t' world, 
 and yet if he hadn't a should just ha' gi'en him t' 
 bed a' t' same : a'm not one as can turn a dog out 
 if he comes t' me wearied o' his life. So he outs 
 wi' a shilling, and lays it down on t' table, 'bout 
 a word. e A'll not trouble yo' long,' says he. e A'm 
 one as is best out o' t' world,' he says. Then a 
 thought as a'd been a bit hard upon him. And says 
 a, 6 a'm a widow-woman, and one as has gotten 
 but few friends : ' for yo' see a were low about our 
 Christopher's going away north ; * so a'm forced-like 
 to speak hard to folk ; but a've made mysel' some 
 
 55—2 
 
244 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 stirabout for my supper ; and if tliou'd like t' share 
 and share about wi' me, it's but putting a sup more 
 watter to 't, and God's blessing '11 be on % just as 
 same as if 't were meal'. So he ups wi' his hand 
 afore his e'en, and says not a word. At last, he 
 says, e Missus,' says he, e can God's blessing be shared 
 by a sinner — one on t' devil's children ? ' says he. 
 * For the Scripture says he's t' fayther o' lies.' So a 
 were puzzled-like ; and at length a says, ( Thou 
 mun ask t' parson that ; a'm but a poor faint- 
 hearted widow-woman ; but a've allays had God's 
 blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an' a'll share 
 it wi' thee as far as my will goes.' So he raxes his 
 hand across t' table, and mutters summat, as he 
 grips mine. A thought it were Scripture as he said, 
 but a'd needed a' my strength just then for t' lift t' 
 pot off t' fire — it were t' first vittle a'd tasted sin' 
 morn, for t' famine comes down like stones on t' 
 head o' us poor folk : and all a said were just e Coom 
 along, chap, an' fa' to ; and God's blessing be on him 
 as eats most.' And sin' that day him and me has 
 been as thick as thieves, only he's niver telled me 
 nought of who he is, or where he comes fra. But 
 a think he's one o' them poor 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 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 245 
 
 bed, an' just lies there sighing — for one can hear him 
 plain as daylight thro' t' bit partition wa'." 
 
 As a proof of this, a sigh — almost a groan — startled 
 the two women at this very moment. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Sylvia, in a soft whisper. 
 "There's more sore hearts in t' world than one 
 reckons for ! " But, after a while, she bethought her 
 again of Kester's account of his sister's " softness ; " 
 and she thought that it behoved her to give some 
 good advice. So she added, in a sterner, harder 
 tone — " Still, yo' say yo' know nought about 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 as soon 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 me aforehand; and he pays 
 me down for whatever a've getten for him ; but 
 that's but little; he's noan up t' his vittle, though 
 a've made him some broth as good as a could make 
 'em." 
 
 e( I wouldn't send him away till he was well 
 again, if I were yo' ; but I think yo'd be better rid 
 on him," said Sylvia. " It would be different if 
 yo'r brother were in Monkshaven." As she spoke 
 she rose to go. 
 
246 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 Widow Dobson held lier hand in hers for a 
 minute, then the humble woman said,- — 
 
 " Yo'll noan be vexed wi' me, missus, if a cannot 
 find i' my heart t' turn him out till he wants to go 
 hissel' ? For a wouldn't like to vex yo', for Chris- 
 topher's sake ; but a know what it is for t' feel for 
 friendless folk, and, choose what may come on it, I 
 cannot send him 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 where there 
 was men-folk, who know t' ways o' tramps, and 
 are up to them." 
 
 Into the sunshine went Sylvia. In the cold 
 shadow the miserable tramp lay sighing. She did 
 not know that she had been so near to him towards 
 whom her heart was softening, day by day. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 FIRST WORDS, 
 
 It was the spring of 1800. Old people yet can tell 
 of the hard famine of that year. The harvest of the 
 autumn before had failed ; the war and the corn laws 
 had brought the price of corn up to a famine rate ; 
 and much of what came into the market was un- 
 sound, and consequently unfit for food, yet hungry 
 creatures bought it eagerly, and tried to cheat 
 disease by mixing the damp, sweet, clammy flour 
 with rice or potato meal. Rich families denied 
 themselves pastry and all unnecessary and luxurious 
 uses of wheat in any shape; the duty on hair-powder 
 was increased ; and all these palliatives were but as 
 drops in the ocean of the great want of the people. 
 
 Philip, in spite of himself, recovered and grew 
 stronger ; and as he grew stronger hunger took the 
 place of loathing dislike to food. But his money 
 was all spent; and what was his poor pension of 
 
248 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 sixpence a day in that terrible year of famine? 
 Many a summer's night he walked for hours and 
 hours round the house which once was his, which 
 might be his now, with all its homely, blessed com- 
 forts, could he but go and assert his right to it. 
 But to go with authority, and in his poor, maimed 
 guise assert that right, he had need be other than 
 Philip Hepburn. So he stood in the old shelter of 
 the steep, crooked lane opening on to the hill out of 
 the market-place, and watched the soft fading of the 
 summer's eve into night; the closing of the once 
 familiar shop ; the exit of good, comfortable William 
 Coulson, going to his own home, his own wife, his 
 comfortable, plentiful supper. Then Philip — there 
 were no police in those days, and scarcely an old 
 watchman in that primitive little town — would go 
 round on the shady sides of streets, and, quickly 
 glancing about him, cross the bridge, looking on the 
 quiet, rippling stream, the grey shimmer foretelling 
 the coming dawn over the sea, the black masts and 
 rigging of the still vessels against the sky ; he could 
 see with his wistful, eager eyes the shape of the win- 
 dows — the window of the very room in which his wife 
 and child slept, unheeding of him, the hungry, broken- 
 hearted outcast. He would go back to his lodging, 
 and softly lift the latch of the door ; still more softly, 
 
FIRST WOEDS. 
 
 249 
 
 but never without an unspoken, grateful prayer, 
 pass by the poor sleeping woman who had given him 
 a shelter and her share of God's blessing — she, who, 
 like him, knew not the feeling of satisfied hunger ; 
 and then he laid him down on the narrow pallet in 
 the lean-to, and again gave Sylvia happy lessons 
 in the kitchen at Haytersbank, and the dead were 
 alive; and Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, had 
 never come to trouble the hopeful, gentle peace. 
 
 For widow Dobson had never taken Sylvia's 
 advice. The tramp known to her by the name of 
 Freeman — that in which he received his pension — 
 lodged with her still, and paid his meagre shilling 
 in advance, weekly. A shilling was meagre in those 
 hard days of scarcity. A hungry man might easily 
 eat the produce of a shilling in a day. 
 
 Widow Dobson pleaded this to Sylvia as an 
 excuse for keeping her lodger on ; to a more cal- 
 culating head it might have seemed a reason for 
 sending him away. 
 
 " Yo' see, missus," said she, apologetically, to 
 Sylvia, one evening, as the latter called upon the 
 poor widow before going to fetch little Bella (it was 
 now too hot for the child to cross the bridge in the 
 full heat of the summer sun, and Jeremiah would 
 take her up to her supper instead) - — " Yo' see, 
 
250 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 missus, there's not a many as would take him in 
 for a shilling when it goes so little way ; or if they 
 did, they'd take it out on him some other way, and 
 he's not getten much else a reckon. He ca's me 
 granny, but a'm vast mista'en if he's ten year 
 younger nor me ; but he's getten a fine appetite of 
 his own, choose how young he may be ; and a can 
 see as he could eat a deal more nor he's getten 
 money to buy, and it's few as can mak' victual go 
 farther nor me. Eh, missus, but yo' may trust me 
 a'll send him off when times is better ; but just now 
 it would be sending him to his death ; for a ha' 
 plenty and to spare, thanks be to God and yo'r 
 bonny face." 
 
 So Sylvia had to be content with the knowledge 
 that the money she gladly gave to Kester's sister 
 went partly to feed the lodger who was neither 
 labourer nor neighbour, but only just a tramp, who, 
 she feared, was preying on the good old woman. 
 Still the cruel famine cut sharp enough to penetrate 
 all hearts ; and Sylvia, an hour after the conversa- 
 tion recorded above, was much touched, on her 
 return from Jeremiah Foster's with the little merry, 
 chattering Bella, at seeing the feeble steps of one, 
 whom she knew by description must be widow 
 Dobson's lodger, turn up from the newly-cut road 
 
FIRST WORDS. 
 
 251 
 
 which was to lead to the terrace walk round the 
 North Cliff, a road which led to no dwelling but 
 widow Dobson's. Tramp, and vagrant, he might 
 be in the ejes of the law ; but, whatever his 
 character, Sylvia could see him before her in the 
 soft dusk, creeping along, over the bridge, often 
 stopping to rest and hold by some support, and 
 then going on again towards the town, to which 
 she and happy little Bella were wending. 
 
 A thought came over her : she had always fancied 
 that this unknown man was some fierce vagabond, 
 and had dreaded lest in the lonely bit of road between 
 widow Dobson's cottage and the peopled highway, 
 he should fall upon her and rob her, if he learnt 
 that she had money with her ; and several times she 
 had gone away without leaving the little gift she had 
 intended, because she imagined that she had seen 
 the door of the small chamber in the " lean-to " open 
 softly while she was there, as if the occupant (whom 
 widow Dobson spoke of as never leaving the house 
 before dusk, excepting once a week) were listening 
 for the chink of the coin in her little leathern purse. 
 Now that she saw him walking before her with 
 heavy languid steps, this fear gave place to pity ; 
 she remembered her mother's gentle superstition 
 which had prevented her from ever sending the 
 
252 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 hungry empty away, for fear lest she herself should 
 come to need bread. 
 
 (e Lassie," said she to little Bella, who held a cake 
 which Jeremiah's housekeeper had given her tight 
 in her hand, "yon poor man there is hungry; will 
 Bella give him her cake, and mother will make her 
 another to-morrow twice as big ? " 
 
 For this consideration, and with the feeling of 
 satisfaction which a good supper not an hour ago 
 gives even to the hungry stomach of a child of 
 three years old, Bella, after some thought, graciously 
 assented to the sacrifice. 
 
 Sylvia stopped, the cake in her hand, and turned 
 her back to the town, and to the slow wayfarer in 
 front. Under the cover of her shawl she slipped 
 a half-crown deep into the crumb of the cake, and 
 then restoring it to little Bella, she gave her her 
 directions. 
 
 " Mammy will carry Bella ; and when Bella goes 
 past the poor man, she shall give him the cake over 
 mammy's shoulder. Poor man is so hungry ; and 
 Bella and mammy have plenty to eat, and to spare." 
 
 The child's heart was touched by the idea of 
 hunger, and her little arm was outstretched ready 
 for the moment her mother's hurried steps took her 
 brushing past the startled, trembling Philip. 
 
FIRST WORDS. 
 
 253 
 
 " Poor man, eat this ; Bella not hungry." 
 
 They were the first words he had ever heard his 
 child utter. The echoes of them rang in his ears 
 as he stood endeavouring to hide his disfigured face 
 by looking over the parapet of the bridge down upon 
 the stream running away towards the ocean, into 
 which his hot tears slowly fell, unheeded by the 
 weeper. Then he changed the intention with 
 which he had set out upon his nightly walk, and 
 turned back to his lodging. 
 
 Of course the case was different with Sylvia ; she 
 would have forgotten the whole, affair very speedily, 
 if it had not been for little Bella's frequent recur- 
 rence to the story of the hungry man, which had 
 touched her small sympathies with the sense of an 
 intelligible misfortune. She liked to act the drop- 
 ping of the bun into the poor man's hand as she 
 went past him, and would take up any article near 
 her in order to illustrate the gesture she had used. 
 One day she got hold of Hester's watch for this 
 purpose, as being of the same round shape as the 
 cake ; and though Hester, for whose benefit the 
 child was repeating the story in her broken language 
 for the third or fourth time, tried to catch the watch 
 as it was intended that she should (she being the 
 representative of the " hungry man " for the time 
 
254 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 being), it went to the ground with a smash that 
 frightened the little girl, and she began to cry at 
 the mischief she had done. 
 
 " Don't cry, Bella," said Hester. 66 Never play 
 with watches again. I didn't see thee at mine, 
 or I'd ha' stopped thee in time. But I'll take it 
 to old Darley's on the quay-side, and maybe he'll 
 soon set it to rights again. Only Bella must never 
 play with watches again." 
 
 " Niver no more ! " promised the little sobbing 
 child. And that evening Hester took her watch 
 down to old Darley's. 
 
 This William Darley was the brother of the gar- 
 dener at the rectory ; the uncle to the sailor who 
 had been shot by the press-gang years before, and 
 to his bed-ridden sister. He was a clever mecha- 
 nician, and his skill as a repairer of watches and 
 chronometers was great among the sailors, with 
 whom he did a very irregular sort of traffic, con- 
 ducted often without much use of money, but rather 
 on the principal of barter, they bringing him foreign 
 coins and odd curiosities picked up on their travels 
 in exchange for his services to their nautical instru- 
 ments or their watches. If he had ever had capital 
 to extend his business, he might have been a rich 
 man ; but it is to be doubted if he would have been 
 
FIRST WORDS. 
 
 255 
 
 as happy as he was now in his queer little habitation 
 of two rooms, the front one being both shop and 
 workshop, the other serving the double purpose of 
 bedroom and museum. 
 
 The skill of this odd-tempered, shabby old man 
 was sometimes sought by the jeweller who kept the 
 more ostentatious shop in the High Street ; but 
 before Darley would undertake any " tickle " piece of 
 delicate workmanship for the other, he sneered at 
 his ignorance, and taunted and abused him well. 
 Yet he had soft places in his heart, and Hester 
 Rose had found her way to one by her patient, 
 enduring kindness to his bed-ridden niece. He 
 never snarled at her as he did at too many; and 
 on the few occasions when she had asked him to 
 do anything for her, he had seemed as if she were 
 conferring the favour on him, not he on her, and 
 only made the smallest possible charge. 
 
 She found him now sitting where he could catch 
 the most light for his work, spectacles on nose, and 
 microscope in hand. 
 
 He took her watch, and examined it carefully 
 without a word in reply to her. Then he began 
 to open it and take it to pieces, in order to ascertain 
 the nature of the mischief. 
 
 Suddenly he heard her catch her breath with a 
 
256 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 checked sound of surprise. He looked at her from 
 above his spectacles ; she was holding a watch in 
 her hand which she had just taken up off the 
 counter. 
 
 " What's amiss wi' thee now ? " said Darley. 
 " Hast ta never seen a watch o' that mak' afore ? 
 or is it them letters on t' back, as is so won- 
 derful?" 
 
 Yes, it was those letters — that interlaced, old- 
 fashioned cipher. That Z. H. that she knew of 
 old stood for Zachary Hepburn, Philip's father. She 
 knew how Philip valued this watch. She remem- 
 bered having seen it in his hands the very day 
 before his disappearance, when he was looking at 
 the time in his annoyance at Sylvia's detention in 
 her walk with baby. Hester had no doubt that 
 he had taken this watch as a matter of course 
 away with him. She felt sure that he would not 
 part with this relic of his dead father on any slight 
 necessity. Where, then, was Philip ? — by what 
 chance of life or death had this, his valued property, 
 found its way once more to Monkshaven ? 
 
 " Where did yo' get this ? " she asked, in as quiet 
 a manner as she could assume, sick with eagerness as 
 she was. 
 
 To no one else would Darley have answered such 
 
FIRST WORDS. 
 
 257 
 
 a question. He made a mystery of most of his 
 dealings ; not that he had anything to conceal, but 
 simply because he delighted in concealment. He 
 took it out of her hands, looked at the number 
 marked inside, and the maker's name — "Natteau 
 Gent, York " — and then replied, — 
 
 " A man brought it me yesterday, at nightfall, for 
 t' sell it. It's a matter o' forty years old. Natteau 
 Gent has been dead and in his grave pretty nigh as 
 long as that. But he did his work well when he 
 were alive ; and so I gave him as brought it for t' 
 sell about as much as it were worth, i' good coin. 
 A tried him first i' t' bartering line, but he wouldn't 
 bite ; like enough he wanted food, — many a one does 
 now-a-days." 
 
 " Who was he ? " gasped Hester. 
 
 " Bless t' woman ! how should I know ? " 
 
 " What was he like ? — how old ? — tell me." 
 
 " My lass, a've summut else to do wi' my eyes 
 than go peering into men's faces i' t' dusk light." 
 
 " But yo' must ha' had light for t' judge about the 
 watch." 
 
 " Eh ! how sharp we are ! A'd a candle close 
 to my nose. But a didn't tak' it up for to gaze 
 int' his face. That wouldn't be manners, to my 
 thinking." 
 
 vol. in. 56 
 
258 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 
 Hester was silent. Then Darley's heart relented. 
 
 " If yo're so set upo' knowing who t' fellow was, 
 a could, mebbe, put yo' on his tracks." 
 
 " How ? " said Hester, eagerly. ee I do want to 
 know. I want to know very much, and for a good 
 reason." 
 
 " Well, then, a'll tell yo. He's a queer tyke, that 
 one is. A'll be bound he were sore pressed for t' 
 brass ; yet he out's wi' a good half-crown, all 
 wrapped up i' paper, and he axes me t' make a hole 
 in it. Says a, e It's marring good king's coin ; at 
 after a've made a hole in't, it'll never pass current 
 again.' So he mumbles, and mumbles, but for all 
 that it must needs be done ; and he's left it here, 
 and is t' call for't to-morrow at e'en." 
 
 " Oh, William Darley ! " said Hester, clasping her 
 hands tight together. " Find out who he is, where 
 he is — anything — everything about him — and I will 
 so bless yo.' " 
 
 Darley looked at her sharply, but with some signs 
 of sympathy on his grave face. 
 
 " My woman," he said, es a could ha' wished as 
 yo'd niver seen t' watch. It's poor, thankless work 
 thinking too much on one o' God's creatures. But 
 a'll do thy bidding," he continued, in a lighter and 
 different tone. (t A'm a 'cute old badger when need 
 
FIRST WORDS. 
 
 259 
 
 be. Come for thy watch in a couple o' days, and 
 a'll tell yo' all as a've learnt." 
 
 So Hester went away, her heart beating with the 
 promise of knowing something about Philip, — how 
 much, how little, in these first moments, she dared 
 not say even to herself. Some sailor newly landed 
 from distant seas might have become possessed of 
 Philip's watch in far-off latitudes; in which case 
 Philip would be dead. That might be. She tried 
 to think that this was the most probable way of 
 accounting for the watch. She could be certain as 
 to the positive identity of the watch — being in 
 William Darley's possession. Again, it might be 
 that Philip himself was near at hand — was here in 
 this very place — starving, as too many were, for 
 insufficiency of means to buy the high-priced food. 
 And then her heart burnt within her as she thought 
 of the succulent, comfortable meals which Sylvia 
 provided every day — nay, three times a day—for the 
 household in the market-place, at the head of which 
 Philip ought to have been ; but his place knew him 
 not. For Sylvia had inherited her mother's talent 
 for housekeeping, and on her, in Alice's decrepitude 
 and Hester's other occupations in the shop, devolved 
 the cares of due provision for the somewhat hetero- 
 geneous family. 
 
 56—2 
 
260 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 And Sylvia ! Hester groaned in heart over the 
 remembrance of Sylvia's words, " I can niver 
 forgive him the wrong he did to me," that night 
 when Hester had come, and clang to her, making 
 the sad, shameful confession of her unreturned love. 
 
 What could ever bring these two together again ? 
 Could Hester herself — ignorant of the strange mystery 
 of Sylvia's heart, as those who are guided solely by 
 obedience to principle must ever be of the clue 
 to the actions of those who are led by the passionate 
 ebb and flow of impulse? Could Hester herself? 
 Oh ! how should she speak, how should she act, 
 if Philip were near — if Philip were sad and in 
 miserable estate? Her own misery at this contem- 
 plation of the case was too great to bear ; and she 
 sought her usual refuge in the thought of some text, 
 some promise of Scripture, which should strengthen 
 her faith. 
 
 " With God all things are possible," said she, 
 repeating the words as though to lull her anxiety 
 to rest. 
 
 Yes ; with God all things are possible. But 
 oft times He does his work with awful instruments. 
 There is a peacemaker whose name is Death. 
 
261 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 Hester went out on the evening of the day after 
 that on which the unknown owner of the half-crown 
 had appointed to call for it again at William D alley's. 
 She had schooled herself to believe that time and 
 patience would serve her best. Her plan was to 
 obtain all the knowledge about Philip that she could 
 in the first instance ; and then, if circumstances 
 allowed it, as in all probability they would, to let 
 drop by drop of healing, peacemaking words and 
 thoughts fall on Sylvia's obdurate, unforgiving heart. 
 So Hester put on her things and went out down 
 towards the old quay-side on that evening after the 
 shop was closed. 
 
 Poor little Sylvia ! She was unforgiving, but not 
 obdurate to the full extent of what Hester believed. 
 Many a time since Philip went away had she 
 unconsciously missed his protecting love ; when folks 
 
262 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 spoke shortly to her, when Alice scolded her as 
 one of the non-elect, when Hester's gentle gravity 
 had something of severity in it; when her own 
 heart failed her as to whether her mother would 
 have judged that she had done well, could that 
 mother have known all, as possibly she did by this 
 time. Philip had never spoken otherwise than 
 tenderly to her during the eighteen months of their 
 married life, except on the two occasions before 
 recorded: once when she referred to her dream of 
 Kinraid's possible return, and once again on the 
 evening of the day before her discovery of his 
 concealment of the secret of Kinraid's involuntary 
 disappearance. 
 
 After she had learnt that Kinraid was married^ 
 her heart had still more strongly turned to Philip ; 
 she thought that he had judged rightly in what 
 he had given as the excuse for his double dealing ; 
 she was even more indignant at Kinraid's feebleness 
 than she had any reason to be ; and she began to 
 learn the value of such enduring love as Philip's 
 had been — lasting ever since the days when she first 
 began to fancy what a man's love for a woman should 
 be, when she had first shrunk from the tone of tender- 
 ness he put into his especial term for her, a girl of 
 twelve, 66 Little lassie," as he was wont to call her. 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 263 
 
 But across all this relenting came the shadow 
 of her vow — like the chill of a great cloud passing 
 over a sunny plain. How should she decide ? what 
 would be her duty, if he came again, and once 
 more called her wife? She shrunk from such a 
 possibility with all the weakness and superstition 
 of her nature ; and this it was which made her 
 strengthen herself with the re-utterance of unfor- 
 giving words ; and shun all recurrence to the subject 
 on the rare occasion when Hester had tried to bring 
 it back, with a hope of softening the heart which to 
 her appeared altogether hardened on this one point. 
 
 Now, on this bright summer evening, while Hester 
 had gone down to the quay-side, Sylvia stood with 
 her out-of-door things on in the parlour, rather 
 impatiently watching the sky, full of hurrying 
 clouds, and flushing with the warm tints of the 
 approaching sunset. She could not leave Alice: 
 the old woman had grown so infirm that she was 
 never left by her daughter and Sylvia at the same 
 time ; yet Sylvia had to fetch her little girl from the 
 New Town, where she had been to her supper at 
 Jeremiah Foster's. Hester had said that she should 
 not be away more than a quarter of an hour ; and 
 Hester was generally so punctual that any failure 
 of hers, in this respect, appeared almost in the 
 
264 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 
 light of an injury on those who had learnt to rely 
 upon her. Sylvia wanted to go and see widow 
 Dobson, and to learn when Kester might be 
 expected home. His two months were long past ; 
 and Sylvia had heard through the Fosters of some 
 suitable and profitable employment for him, of which 
 she thought he would be glad to know as soon as 
 possible. It was now some time since she had been 
 able to get so far as across the bridge; and, for 
 aught she knew, Kester might already be come back 
 from his expedition to the Cheviots. Kester was 
 come back. Scarce five minutes had elapsed after 
 these thoughts had passed through her mind before 
 his hasty hand lifted the latch of the kitchen- 
 door, his hurried steps brought him face to face 
 with her. The smile of greeting was arrested on 
 her lips by one look at him : his eyes staring wide, 
 the expression on his face wild, and yet pitiful. 
 
 " That's right," said he, seeing that her things 
 were already on. " Thou're wanted sore. Come 
 along." 
 
 " Oh ! dear God ! my child ! " cried Sylvia, 
 clutching at the chair near her ; but recovering her 
 eddying senses, with the strong fact before her that 
 whatever the terror was, she was needed to com- 
 bat it. 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 265 
 
 e: Ay ; thy cliild ! " said Kester, taking her almost 
 roughly by the arm, and drawing her away with 
 him out through the open doors on to the quay- 
 side. 
 
 " Tell me ! " said Sylvia, faintly, " is she dead? " 
 
 " She's safe now," said Kester. " It's not her, 
 it's him as saved her as needs yo', if iver husband 
 needed a wife." 
 
 "He?— who? O Philip! Philip! is it yo' at 
 last ? " 
 
 Unheeding what spectators might see her move- 
 ments, she threw up her arms, and staggered against 
 the parapet of the bridge they were then crossing. 
 
 " He !— Philip !— saved Bella ? Bella, our little 
 Bella, as got her dinner by my side, and went out 
 wi' Jeremiah, as well as could be. I can't take it 
 in; tell me, Kester." She kept trembling so much 
 in voice and in body, that he saw she could not stir 
 without danger of falling until she was calmed ; as 
 it was, her eyes became filmy from time to time, 
 and she drew her breath in great, heavy pants, 
 leaning all the while against the wall of the 
 bridge. 
 
 "It were no illness," Kester began. " T little 
 one had gone for a walk wi' Jeremiah Foster, and he 
 were drawn for to go round t' edge o' t' cliff, where 
 
266 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 they's making t' new walk right o'er t' sea. But 
 it's but a bit on a pathway now; and t' one was 
 too oud, and t' other too young for t' see the watter 
 coming along wi' great leaps ; it's allays for coming 
 high up again' t' cliff, and this spring-tide it's coming 
 in i' terrible big waves. Some one said as they 
 passed t' man a-sitting on a bit on a rock up 
 above — a dunnot know, a only know as a heerd 
 a great fearful screech i' t' air. A were just a-rest- 
 ing me at after a'd corned in, not half an hour 
 i' t' place. A've walked better nor a dozen mile 
 to-day ; and a ran out, and a looked, and just on 
 t' walk, at t' turn, was t' swish of a wave running 
 back as quick as t' mischief int' t' sea, and old 
 Jeremiah standing like one crazy, looking o'er int' 
 t' watter ; and like a stroke o' leeghtnin' comes a 
 man, and int' t' very midst on t' great waves like a 
 shot ; and then a knowed summut were in t' watter 
 as were nearer death than life ; and a seemed to 
 misdoubt me that it were our Bella ; and a shouts 
 and a cries for help, and a goes mysel' to t' very 
 edge on t' cliff, and a bids oud Jeremiah, as was 
 like one beside hissel', hold tight on me, for he 
 were good for nought else ; and a bides my time, 
 and when a sees two arms holding out a little drip- 
 pin', streamin' child, a clutches her by her waist- 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 267 
 
 band, and hauls her to land. She's noan t' worse 
 for her bath, a'll be bound." 
 
 " I must go — let me," said Sylvia, struggling with 
 his detaining hand, which he had laid upon her in 
 the fear that she would slip down to the ground 
 in a faint, so ashen-grey was her face. " Let me, — - 
 Bella, I must go see her." 
 
 He let go, and she stood still, suddenly feeling 
 herself too weak to stir. 
 
 ee Now, if yo'll try a bit to be quiet, a'll lead yo' 
 along ; but yo' must be a steady and brave lass." 
 
 " I'll be aught if yo' only let me see Bella," said 
 Sylvia, humbly. 
 
 "An' yo' niver ask at after him as saved her," 
 said Kester, reproachfully. 
 
 " I know it's Philip," she whispered, " and yo' 
 said he wanted me ; so I know he's safe ; and, 
 Kester, I think I'm 'feared on him, and I'd like 
 to gather courage afore seeing him, and a look at 
 Bella would give me courage. It were a terrible 
 time when I saw him last, and I did say " 
 
 ce Niver think on what thou did say ; think on 
 what thou will say to him now, for he lies a-dying ! 
 He were dashed again t' cliff and bruised sore in his 
 innards afore t' men as came wi' a boat could pick 
 him up." 
 
268 
 
 Sylvia's lovers. 
 
 She did not speak ; she did not even tremble now ; 
 she set her teeth together, and, holding tight by 
 Kester, she urged him on ; but when they came to 
 the end of the bridge, she seemed uncertain which 
 way to turn. 
 
 " This way," said Kester. " He's been lodgin' 
 wi' Sally this nine week, and never a one about 
 t ! place as knowed him ; he's been i' t' wars and 
 getten his face brunt." 
 
 ee And he was short o' food," moaned Sylvia, " and 
 we had plenty, and I tried to make your sister turn 
 him out, and send him away. Oh! will God iver 
 forgive me ? " 
 
 Muttering to herself, breaking her mutterings 
 with sharp cries of pain, Sylvia, with Kester's help, 
 reached widow Dobson's house. It was no longer 
 a quiet, lonely dwelling. Several sailors stood about 
 the door, awaiting, in silent anxiety, for the verdict 
 of the doctor, who was even now examining Philip's 
 injuries. Two or three women stood talking eagerly, 
 in low voices, in the doorway. 
 
 But when Sylvia drew near the men fell back ; 
 and the women moved aside as though to allow her 
 to pass, all looking upon her with a certain amount 
 of sympathy, but perhaps with rather more of anta- 
 gonistic wonder as to how she was taking it — she 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 269 
 
 who had been living in ease and comfort while her 
 husband's shelter was little better than a hovel, her 
 husband's daily life a struggle with starvation ; for so 
 much of the lodger at widow Dobson's was popularly 
 known ; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a 
 tramp was quite forgotten now. 
 
 Sylvia felt the hardness of their looks, the hardness 
 of their silence ; but it was as nothing to her. If 
 such things could have touched her at this moment, 
 she would not have stood still right in the midst of 
 their averted hearts, and murmured something to 
 Kester. He could not hear the words uttered by 
 that hoarse choked voice, until he had stooped down 
 and brought his ear to the level of her mouth. 
 
 " We'd better wait for t' doctors to come out," she 
 said again. She stood by the door, shivering all 
 over, almost facing the people in the road, but with 
 her face turned a little to the right, so that they 
 thought she was looking at the pathway on the cliff- 
 side, a hundred yards or so distant, below which the 
 hungry waves still lashed themselves into high as- 
 cending spray ; while nearer to the cottage, where their 
 force was broken by the bar at the entrance to the 
 river, they came softly lapping up the shelving shore. 
 
 Sylvia saw nothing of all this, though it was 
 straight before her eyes. She only saw a blurred 
 
270 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 mist ; she heard no sound of waters, though it filled 
 the ears of those around. Instead she heard low 
 whispers pronouncing Philip's earthly doom. 
 
 For the doctors were both agreed ; his internal 
 injury was of a mortal kind, although, as the spine 
 was severely injured above the seat of the fatal 
 bruise, he had no pain in the lower half of his 
 body. 
 
 They had spoken in so low a tone that John Foster, 
 standing only a foot or so away, had not been able to 
 hear their words. But Sylvia heard each syllable 
 there where she stood outside, shivering all over in 
 the sultry summer evening. She turned round to 
 Kester. 
 
 ce I must go to him, Kester ; thou'll see that noan 
 come in to us, when t' doctors come out." 
 
 She spoke in a soft calm voice; and he, not 
 knowing what she had heard, made some easy con- 
 ditional promise. Then those opposite to the cottage 
 door fell back, for they could see the grave doctors 
 coming out, and John Foster, graver, sadder still, 
 following them. Without a word to them, — with- 
 out a word even of inquiry — which many outside 
 thought and spoke of as strange — white -faced, 
 dry-eyed, Sylvia slipped into the house out of their 
 sight. 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 271 
 
 And the waves kept lapping on the shelving 
 shore. 
 
 The room inside was dark, all except the little halo 
 or circle of light made by a dip candle. Widow 
 Dobson had her back to the bed — her bed — on to 
 which Philip had been borne in the hurry of terror 
 as to whether he was alive or whether he was dead. 
 She was crying — crying quietly, but the tears down- 
 falling fast, as, with her back to the lowly bed, she 
 was gathering up the dripping clothes cut off from 
 the poor maimed body by the doctors' orders. She 
 only shook her head as she saw Sylvia, spirit-like, 
 steal in — white, noiseless, and upborne from earth. 
 
 But noiseless as her step might be, he heard, 
 he recognized, and with a sigh he turned his poor 
 disfigured face to the wall, hiding it in the 
 shadow. 
 
 He knew that she was by him ; that she had knelt 
 down by his bed ; that she was kissing his hand, over 
 which the languor of approaching death was stealing. 
 But no one spoke. 
 
 At length he said, his face still averted, speaking 
 with an effort, 
 
 "Little lassie, forgive me now ! I cannot live to see 
 the morn ! " 
 
 There was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, 
 
272 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 and he felt her soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the 
 quiver that ran through her whole body. 
 
 " I did thee a cruel wrong," he said, at length. "I 
 see it now. But I am a dying man. I think that 
 God will forgive me — and I have sinned against Him ; 
 try, lassie — try, my Sylvie — will not thou forgive 
 me?" 
 
 He listened intently for a moment. He heard 
 through the open window the waves lapping on the 
 shelving shore. But there came no word from her ; 
 only that same long shivering,, miserable sigh, broke 
 from her lips at length. 
 
 " Child," said he, once more. " I ha' made thee 
 my idol; and if I could live my life o'er again I 
 would love my God more, and thee less ; and then 
 I shouldn't have sinned this sin against thee. But 
 speak one word of love to me — one little word, that 
 I may know I have thy pardon." 
 
 " Oh, Philip ! Philip ! " she moaned, thus adjured. 
 
 Then she lifted her head, and said, 
 
 " Them were wicked, wicked words, as I said ; and 
 a wicked vow as I vowed ; and Lord God Almighty 
 has ta'en me at my word. I'm sorely punished, 
 Philip, I am indeed." 
 
 Pie pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek. But 
 he asked for yet another word. 
 
SAVED ATO LOST. 
 
 273 
 
 " I did tliee a wrong. In my lying heart I forgot 
 to do to thee as I would have had thee to do to me. 
 And I judged Kinraid in my heart." 
 
 " Thou thought as he was faithless and fickle/' 
 she answered quickly ; ee and so he were. He w r ere 
 married to another woman not so many weeks at after 
 thou went away. Oh, Philip, Philip ! and now I 
 have thee back, and " 
 
 tf Dying " was the word she would have said, but 
 first the dread of telling him what she believed 
 lie did not know, and next her passionate sobs, 
 choked her. 
 
 " I know," said he, once more stroking her cheek, 
 and soothing her with gentle, caressing hand. 
 " Little lassie ! " he said, after a while when she was 
 quiet from very exhaustion, " I niver thought to be 
 so happy again. God is very merciful." 
 
 She lifted up her head, and asked wildly, (e Will He 
 ever forgive me, think yo'? I drove yo' out fra yo'r 
 home, and sent yo' away to t' wars, where yo' might 
 ha' getten yo'r death ; and when yo' came back, poor 
 and lone, and weary, I told her for t' turn yo' out, for 
 a' I knew yo' must be starving in these famine times. 
 I think I shall go about among them as gnash their 
 teeth for iver, while yo' are where all tears are wiped 
 away." 
 
 vol. in. 57 
 
274 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 " No ! " said Philip, turning round his face, forget- 
 ful of himself in his desire to comfort her. ee God 
 pities us as a father pities his poor wandering children; 
 the nearer I come to death the clearer I see Him. 
 But you and me have done wrong to each other; yet 
 we can see now how we were led to it ; we can pity 
 and forgive one another. I'm getting low and faints 
 lassie; but thou must remember this; God knows 
 more, and is more forgiving than either you to me, or 
 me to you. I think and do believe as we shall meet 
 together before His face : but then I shall ha' learnt 
 to love thee second to Him ; not first, as I have done 
 here upon the earth." 
 
 Then he was silent — very still. Sylvia knew — 
 widow Dobson had brought it in — that there was 
 some kind of medicine, sent by the hopeless doctors, 
 lying upon the table hard by, and she softly rose and 
 poured it out and dropped it into the half-open 
 mouth. Then she knelt down again, holding the hand 
 feebly stretched out to her, and watching the faint 
 light in the wistful loving eyes. And in the stillness 
 she heard the ceaseless waves lapping against the 
 shelving shore. 
 
 Something like an hour before this time, which 
 was the deepest midnight of the summer's night, 
 Hester Rose had come hurrying up the road to 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 275 
 
 where Kester and his sister sate outside the open 
 door, keeping their watch under the star-lit sky, all 
 others having gone away, one by one, even John 
 and Jeremiah Foster having returned to their own 
 house, where the little Bella lay, sleeping a sound 
 and healthy slumber after her perilous adventure. 
 
 Hester had heard but little from William Darley 
 as to the owner of the watch and the half-crown ; 
 but he was chagrined at the failure of all his skilful 
 interrogations to elicit the truth, and promised her 
 further information in a few days, with all the more 
 vehemence because he was unaccustomed to be 
 baffled. And Hester had again whispered to herself 
 " Patience ! Patience ! " and had slowly returned 
 back to her home to find that Sylvia had left it, why 
 she did not at once discover. But, growing uneasy 
 as the advancing hours neither brought Sylvia nor 
 little Bella to their home, she had set out for Jere- 
 miah Foster's as soon as she had seen her mother 
 comfortably asleep in her bed; and then she had 
 learnt the whole story, bit by bit, as each person who 
 spoke broke in upon the previous narration with some 
 new particular. But from no one did she clearly 
 learn whether Sylvia was with her husband, or not ; 
 and so she came speeding along the road, breathless, 
 to where Kester sate in wakeful, mournful silence, his 
 
 57—2 
 
276 
 
 Sylvia's lovers. 
 
 sister's sleeping head lying on his shoulder, the 
 cottage door open, both for air and that there might 
 be help within call if needed ; and the dim slanting 
 oblong of the interior light lying across the road. 
 
 Hester came panting up, too agitated and breath- 
 less to ask how much was truth of the fatal, hopeless 
 tale which she had heard. Kester looked at her 
 without a word. Through this solemn momentary 
 silence the lapping of the ceaseless waves was heard, 
 as they came up close on the shelving shore. 
 
 " He ? Philip ? " said she. Kester shook his head 
 sadly. 
 
 " And his wife — Sylvia? " said Hester. 
 "In there with him, alone," whispered Kester. 
 Hester turned away, and wrung her hands 
 together. 
 
 " Oh, Lord God Almighty ! " said she, " was I not 
 even worthy to bring them together at last ? " 
 And she went away slowly and heavily back to the 
 side of her sleeping mother. But " Thy will be 
 done " was on her quivering lips before she lay down 
 to her rest. 
 
 The soft grey dawn lightens the darkness of a 
 midsummer night soon after two o'clock. Philip 
 watched it come, knowing that it was his last sight of 
 day, — as we reckon days on earth. 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 277 
 
 He Iiad been often near death as a soldier ; once 
 or twice, as when he rushed into fire to save Kinraid, 
 his chances of life had been as one to a hundred ; 
 but yet he had had a chance. But now there was 
 the new feeling — the last new feeling which we shall 
 any of us experience in this world — that death was 
 not only close at hand but inevitable. 
 
 He felt its numbness stealing up him — stealing 
 up him. But the head was clear, the brain more 
 than commonly active in producing vivid impres- 
 sions. 
 
 It seemed but yesterday since he was a little boy at 
 his mother's knee, wishing with all the earnestness of 
 his childish heart to be like Abraham, who w r as called 
 the friend of God, or David, who was said to be the 
 man after God's own heart, or St. John, who was 
 called " the Beloved." As very present seemed the 
 day on which he made resolutions of trying to be 
 like them ; it was in the spring, and some one had 
 brought in cowslips ; and the scent of those flowers 
 was in his nostrils now, as he lay a-dying — his life 
 ended, his battles fought, his time for " being good " 
 over and gone — the opportunity, once given in all 
 eternity, past. 
 
 All the temptations that had beset him rose clearly 
 before him ; the scenes themselves stood up in their 
 
278 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEES. 
 
 solid materialism — lie could have touched the places ; 
 the people, the thoughts, the arguments that Satan 
 had urged in behalf of sin, were reproduced with the 
 vividness of a present time. And he knew that the 
 thoughts were illusions, the arguments false and 
 hollow; for in that hour came the perfect vision 
 of the perfect truth : he saw the i( way to escape " 
 which had come along with the temptation ; now, 
 the strong resolve of an ardent boyhood, with all 
 a life before it to show the world e f what a Christian 
 might be ; " and then the swift, terrible now, when 
 his naked, guilty soul shrank into the shadow of 
 God's mercy-seat, out of the blaze of His anger 
 against all those who act a lie. 
 
 His mind was wandering, and he plucked it back. 
 Was this death in very deed? He tried to grasp 
 at the present, the earthly present, fading quick 
 away. He lay there on the bed — on Sally Dobson's 
 bed in the houseplace, not on his accustomed pallet 
 in the lean-to. He knew that much. And the door 
 was open into the still, dusk night ; and through the 
 open casement he could hear the lapping of the 
 waves on the shelving shore, could see the soft grey 
 dawn over the sea — he knew it was over the sea — 
 he saw what lay unseen behind the poor walls 
 of the cottage. And it was Sylvia who held his 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 279 
 
 hand tight in her warm, living grasp; it was his 
 wife whose arm was thrown around him, whose 
 sobbing sighs shook his numbed frame from time 
 to time. 
 
 " God bless and comfort my darling," he said to 
 himself. ee She knows me now. All will be right 
 in heaven — in the light of God's mercy." 
 
 And then he tried to remember all that he had 
 ever read about God, and all that the blessed Christ 
 — that bringeth glad tidings of great joy unto all 
 people, had said of the Father, from whom He came. 
 Those sayings came like balm down upon his troubled 
 heart and brain. He remembered his mother, and 
 how she had loved him ; and he was going to a love 
 wiser, tenderer, deeper than hers. 
 
 As he thought this, he moved his hands as if to 
 pray ; but Sylvia clenched her hold, and he lay still, 
 praying all the same for her, for his child, and for 
 himself. Then he saw the sky redden with the first 
 flush of dawn ; he heard Kester's long-drawn sigh of 
 weariness outside the open door. 
 
 He had seen widow Dobson pass through long 
 before to keep the remainder of her watch on the 
 bed in the lean-to, which had been his for many 
 and many a sleepless and tearful night. Those 
 nights were over — he should never see that poor 
 
280 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 chamber again, though it was scarce two feet distant. 
 He began to lose all sense of the comparative dura- 
 tion of time: it seemed as long since kind Sally 
 Dobson had bent over him with soft, lingering look, 
 before going into the humble sleeping-room — as long 
 as it was since his boyhood, when he stood by his 
 mother dreaming of the life that should be his, 
 with the scent of the cowslips tempting him to be 
 off to the woodlands where they grew. Then there 
 came a rush and an eddying through his brain — his 
 soul trying her wings for the long flight. Again 
 he was in the present : he heard the waves lapping 
 against the shelving shore once again. 
 
 And now his thoughts came back to Sylvia. 
 Once more he spoke aloud, in a strange and terrible 
 voice, which was not his. Every sound came with 
 efforts that were new to him. 
 
 K My wife ! Sylvie ! Once more — forgive me all." 
 
 She sprang up, she kissed his poor burnt lips ; she 
 held him in her arms, she moaned, and said, 
 
 " Oh, wicked me ! forgive me — me — Philip ! " 
 
 Then he spoke, and said, "Lord, forgive us 
 our trespasses as we forgive each other ! " And 
 after that the power of speech was conquered by the 
 coming death. He lay very still, his consciousness 
 fast fading away, yet coming back in throbs, so that 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 281 
 
 lie knew it was Sylvia who touched his lips with 
 cordial, and that it was Sylvia who murmured words 
 of love in his ear. He seemed to sleep at last, and 
 so he did — a kind of sleep, but the light of the red 
 morning sun fell on his eyes, and with one strong 
 effort he rose up, and turned so as once more to see 
 his wife's pale face of misery. 
 
 " In heaven," he cried, and a bright smile came 
 on his face, as he fell back on his pillow. 
 
 Not long after Hester came, the little Bella scarce 
 awake in her arms, with the purpose of bringing his 
 child to see him ere yet he passed away. Hester 
 had watched and prayed through the live -long night. 
 And now she found him dead, and Sylvia, tearless 
 and almost unconscious, lying by him, her hand 
 holding his, her other thrown around him. 
 
 Kester, poor old man, was sobbing bitterly ; but 
 she not at all. 
 
 Then Hester bore her child to her, and Sylvia 
 opened wide her miserable eyes, and only stared, as 
 if all sense was gone from her. But Bella suddenly 
 rousing up at the sight of the poor scarred, peaceful 
 face, cried out, 
 
 " Poor man who was so hungry. Is he not hungry 
 now ?" 
 
 "No," said Hester softly. "The former things 
 
282 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVEKS. 
 
 are passed away, — and he is gone where there is no 
 more sorrow, and no more pain." 
 
 But then she broke down into weeping and crying. 
 Sylvia sat up and looked at her. 
 
 " Why do yo' cry, Hester ? " she said. " Yo' 
 niver said that yo' wouldn't forgive him as long as 
 yo' lived. Yo' never broke the heart of him that 
 loved yo', and let him almost starve at yo'r very 
 door. Oh, Philip ! my Philip, tender and true." 
 
 Then Hester came round and closed the sad half- 
 open eyes ; kissing the calm brow with a long farewell 
 kiss. As she did so, her eye fell on a black ribbon 
 round his neck. She partly lifted it out ; to it was 
 hung a half-crown piece. 
 
 "This is the piece he left at William Darley's 
 to be bored," said she, " not many days ago. " 
 
 Bella had crept to her mother's arms as a known 
 haven in this strange place; and the touch of his 
 child loosened the fountains of her tears. She 
 stretched out her hand for the black ribbon, put it 
 round her own neck ; after a while she said, 
 
 * If I live very long, and try hard to be very good 
 all that time, do yo' think Hester as God will let me 
 
 to him where he is ? " 
 
 ***** 
 
SAVED AND LOST. 
 
 283 
 
 Monkshaven is altered now into a rising bathing 
 place. Yet, standing near the site of widow Dobson's 
 house on a summer's night, at the ebb of a spring- 
 tide, you may hear the waves come lapping up 
 the shelving shore with the same ceaseless, ever- 
 recurrent sound, as that which Philip listened to in 
 the pauses between life and death. 
 
 And so it will be until "there shall be no more 
 sea." 
 
 But the memory of man fades away. A few old 
 people can still tell you the tradition of the man who 
 died in a cottage somewhere about this spot, died of 
 starvation while his wife lived in hard-hearted plenty 
 not two good stone's throw away. This is the form 
 into which popular feeling, and ignorance of the real 
 facts, have moulded the story. Not long since a lady 
 went to the " Public Baths, " a handsome stone 
 building erected on the very site of widow Dobson's 
 cottage, and finding all the rooms engaged she sat 
 down and had some talk with the bathing woman ; 
 and, as it chanced, the conversation fell on Philip 
 Hepburn and the legend of his fate. 
 
 ee I knew an old man when I was a girl," said the 
 bathing woman, " as could never abide to hear the 
 wife blamed. He would say nothing again the hus- 
 band ; he used to say as it were not fit for men to be 
 
284 
 
 SYLVIA'S LOVERS. 
 
 judging ; that she had had her sore trials as well as 
 Hepburn hisself." 
 
 The lady asked, " What became of the wife ? " 
 
 " She was a pale, sad woman, always dressed in 
 black. I can just remember her when I was a little 
 child, but she died before her daughter was well 
 grown up; and Miss Rose took the lassie, as had 
 always been like her own." 
 
 "Miss Rose?" 
 
 "Hester Rose ! have you niver heard of Hester 
 Rose, she as founded the alms-houses for poor dis- 
 abled sailors and soldiers on the Horncastle road? 
 There's a piece of stone in front to say that e This 
 building is erected in memory of P. H.' — and some 
 folk will have it P. H. stands for the name of the 
 man as was starved to death." 
 
 "And the daughter?" 
 
 "One of the Fosters, them as founded the Old 
 Bank, left her a vast o' money ; and she were married 
 to a distant cousin of theirs, and went off to settle in 
 America many and many a year ago." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 London: Smith, Elder and Co., Little Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey, E.C. 
 
By the same Author, 
 THE 
 
 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BRONTE, 
 
 Author of " Jane Eyre," " Shirley," " Yillette," &c. With 
 Portrait. Post 8vo. Price 75. 6d. cloth. 
 
 Also a Cheap Edition. Fcap 8vo. Price 2s. 6d. cloth. 
 
 %* A few Copies of the Library Edition, in Two Volumes, 
 Post 8vo, price 24s. cloth, may still be had. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 (Times.) 
 
 " It is rarely that we find a portrait of literary character with such 
 a remarkable setting, and as rare to find an author whose works are 
 so popular, so vivid, and distinctive, and whose personal history was 
 so utterly unknown. A sister authoress, gifted herself with superior 
 powers, has described, with true woman's sympathy and eagerness, 
 the whole course of the life which is now closed for ever. We regard 
 the record as a monument of courage and endurance, of suffering and 
 
 triumph All the secrets of the literary workmanship of the 
 
 authoress of c Jane Eyre ' are unfolded in the course of this extra- 
 ordinary narrative." 
 
2 
 
 (Eraser's Magazine.) 
 " Mrs. Gaskell has done her work well. Her narrative is simple, 
 direct, and unaffected. She dwells on her friend's character with 
 womanly tact, thorough understanding, and delicate, sisterly tender- 
 ness. The extracts from the letters are excellently selected, and they 
 are remarkable letters. Many parts of the book cannot be read with- 
 out deep, even painful emotion. It is a life always womanly ; and 
 we are thankful that such a life should have been written by the 
 author of c Buth.' No one else could have paid so tender and dis- 
 cerning a tribute to the memory of Charlotte Bronte." 
 
 (Athenaeum.) 
 
 " The story of a woman's life, unfolded in this book, is calculated 
 
 to make the old feel young, and the young old By all this 
 
 book will be read with interest Mrs. Gaskell has produced 
 
 one of the best biographies of a woman by a woman which we can 
 recall to mind." 
 
 (Daily News.) 
 
 " Thoroughly well and artistically has the work been accomplished ; 
 an informing method presides over the whole ; there is no feebleness 
 or redundancy; every circumstance has a direct bearing on the main 
 object of painting, vigorously and accurately, a real picture of the 
 woman as she was." 
 
 (Spectator.) 
 
 " The profound pathos, the tragic interest, of this book lies in the 
 terrible struggle that life was to a woman endowed with Charlotte 
 Bronte's conscientiousness, affection for her family, and literary 
 ambition, and continually curbed and thrown back by physical 
 wretchedness. Its moral is, the unconquerable strength of genius 
 and goodness." 
 
3 
 
 (Globe.) 
 
 " Mrs. GaskelPs ' Life of Charlotte Bronte ' has placed her on a 
 level with the best biographers of any country. It is a truthful and 
 beautiful work. . . . No one can read it without feeling strengthened 
 and purified." 
 
 (Saturday Review.) 
 " If any one wishes to see how a woman possessed of the highest 
 intellectual power can disregard every temptation which intellect 
 throws in the way of women, how generously and nobly a human 
 being can live under the pressure of accumulated misfortunes — the 
 record is at hand in the ' Life of Charlotte Bronte.' " 
 
 (Economist.) 
 
 " We have before us the life of a truly great and noble woman, 
 written by one who has sufficient moral sympathy to understand her 
 character, and sufficient intellectual insight to appreciate her genius. 
 Such a work cannot fail to be of the deepest interest ; and it has a 
 special interest for female readers." 
 
 (Literary Gazette.) 
 
 " These volumes supply ample information respecting the author of 
 * Jane Eyre/ The life itself possesses a tearful interest, that deepens 
 as it advances towards its close. It is singularly touching, and sinks 
 into the heart of the reader." 
 
 (Examiner.) 
 
 " We can be sincere in our praise of this book, and must not part 
 from it without saying how often we have been touched by the tone 
 of loving sympathy in which it is written, and how keenly, in the 
 chapters dwelling upon events distant enough to be as much studied 
 
4 
 
 as felt, we have enjoyed the acute perception of those points which 
 are most characteristic of a life — the well-timed production from a 
 store of materials of that anecdote or fragment which tells what 
 needs most to be told with the most perfect clearness and in fewest 
 words." 
 
 (British Quarterly Eeview.) 
 " The story of this remarkable woman, told with such deep and 
 simple pathos by her gifted and affectionate biographer, is as inter- 
 esting as the tale of a second 'Jane Eyre.' The memoir has almost 
 the charm of an autobiography; for in the half-unconscious revela- 
 tions of the letters written to her friends, we may trace the formation 
 of her peculiar intellectual power." 
 
 (National Eeview.) 
 " We echo the universal opinion as to the skill with which a diffi- 
 cult work has been executed, and an absorbing interest given to the 
 
 narrative Whatever can be derived from sequence of events, 
 
 external description, and such indications of personal character as 
 letters afford, is furnished in the fullest abundance. The biographer's 
 command of language, and her talent of description at once powerful 
 and delicate, enable her to depict with wondrous vividness, the scenes 
 in which this painful and secluded drama of life was presented, and 
 the conditions under which it was played out to its melancholy 
 close." 
 
 LONDON : SMITH, ELDER & CO., 65, CORNHILL. 
 
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